Breaking Point
by Jess Pallas
Summary: The crew discover a dead leviathan whose Pilot and crew have all been murdered. But who was responsible and could the same fate be about to befall Moya? Finalist Best Novella FSFanfic Awards 2003
1. A Fallen Giant

Breaking Point – Part One.

By Jess Pallas.

Disclaimer; I don't own Farscape or any of its characters. Please don't sue me!

Feedback; Go on then! E-mail me at jesspallas@hotmail.com

Archiving; If you like it, take it. But please, let me know first.

Rating:  PG although some bits are rather grim. Contains scenes of violence and fairly mild gore. Be warned.

Category; Drama, Action.

Spoilers; TWWW, DNAMS, TGAS, IET, CDM.

Timeframe; Midway through S2 probably after LATP. I can't be specific because I'm not sure myself!

Summary: The crew discover a dead leviathan whose Pilot and crew have been brutally murdered. But who was responsible – and could the same fate be about to befall Moya?

Copyright 17-09-2001.

"This is intolerable!"

Dominar Rygel the sixteenth paused a microt in order to unleash a string of Hynerian obscenities at the small, harmless-looking but completely intractable object lying in front of him. It glistened in the golden light, seeming almost to wink at him, to mock him and his inability to unlock its secrets, a dark, frustrating source of mystery and almost unreachable profit. It looked so innocent; a simple sphere of metallic, reflective black, refracting rays of colour as though it were some incandescent ball of dark matter, a single silver curve etched along one side, jutting slightly from the polished perfection of the whole, a swipe of almost colour in a wall as black as night. That had to be the key, Rygel had concluded. It was the only part of the frelling thing that seemed to have a purpose. It was obviously a locking mechanism of some kind but thus far it had eluded all attempts to yield to his superior intellect. What the yotz was in the frelling thing?

It had been a mistake. It was a rare admission for Rygel to make, but he had no choice but to face up to it. He should never have bought it. When he had acquired the sphere ten solar days before, he had encountered some difficulty in understanding the speech of the traders of the city market – translator microbes it seemed, were no fonder of strong dialects than he was – but he had managed to establish that these dull looking spheres contained an incredibly valuable commodity, a commodity that many in this area of space would trade their very souls to obtain. What exactly this commodity was, Rygel could not be certain – the speech of the traders had at this point become incomprehensible. He had caught something about great light, about value beyond counting and some illusive and ridiculously poetic references to "shards of power" and "ripples in the air." He had come to conclude that the sphere probably contained some kind of magnificent gemstones or jewels, probably cut to refract the light in some spectacular fashion and, never one to miss an opportunity, had decided it might be prudent to get his hands on some before he left – preferably at bargain prices. That was when the trouble had started. The traders only ever seemed willing to trade the spheres off in pairs and at a fairly obscene rate that lay well beyond Rygel's irritatingly modest means. At last, in a dark pocket of the market square, he had found a seedy looking trader willing to part with a single sphere for a very reasonable price and although he now had every intention of selling it on, the Dominar at least wanted to know what exactly it was that made these indestructible containers so special.

That however, was looking increasingly unlikely. Rygel had tried every means at his disposal to open the thing – rubbing it with his hands, heating it, cooling it, even hurling it to the ground – but stubbornly, maddeningly, it would not yield. Out of breath from his latest effort, Rygel slumped back in his thronesled and stared balefully at the source of his wraith, the single silver line curling up slightly across the spherical surface. Staring at the merry profile, Rygel became suddenly and irrationally convinced that the frelling thing was laughing at him.

"Frell you then!" he exclaimed angrily, batting the dark ball with one small fist. It rolled in a gentle circle across the golden table, rotating, spinning before it came to rights, fixing Rygel once more with that same infuriating suedo-grin. 

Rygel was less than amused.

He was right on the verge of delivering a retribution that would have inanimate objects across the quadrant quaking in their boots when the grinding of the door lock announced the arrival of the last thing he needed; company.

"Hey Ryge!" Chiana bounded into the room with sickening enthusiasm, her grey skin gleaming and her white hair wet from recent washing. It was probably a rub down from her latest encounter with D'Argo – not a thought Rygel especially wanted to dwell on. With a grin that almost matched the spheres for irritation value, she hurled herself onto his bed, sprawling across the golden sheets as she rolled onto her back and hung her head down one side, cocking it as she gazed at him upside down.

"Watcha doing?" she exclaimed.

She was bored. That much was obvious. And she'd come to him for entertaining. Rygel sighed; he was in no mood for the Nebari thunderbolt today. But a part of his subconscious was poking rather pre-emptorially at his mind, prompting him to realise there could be a benefit to this turn of events. Much as it goaded him to admit it, Chiana was far his superior in matters of breaking and entering – as a professional thief she'd had a great deal more experience than a once pampered Dominar who was at best a gifted amateur. Maybe Chiana could unlock the riddle of the sphere where he could not.

But then, Rygel's possessive streak kicked into high gear. Any one who expected nothing for nothing was a fool. What price would the Nebari demand for her services? What if she insisted on a share of the contents? Such a transaction ran the risk of halving his profit when he came to sell it on – although he had noticed that buyers tended to buy the spheres without inspecting the insides, so it might not be a total loss. He could even keep part of the contents himself. But what would sharing do to his profit margin?

He made a quick decision. 

"Mind your own business!" he snapped. "How dare you charge into my royal bedchamber uninvited! If this were Hyneria, I'd have you flogged!"

"Okay, okay! Don't get your thronesled in a twist!" Chiana rolled onto her front, resting her chin in her hands as she casually waved her legs in the air. "I only dropped in to say hi!"

"You've said it!" Rygel growled antisocially. "Now leave!"

But the sharp black eyes of the Nebari had already fixed on the awkward shape of the sphere that Rygel had been unobtrusively trying to herd into concealment behind his thronesled. She frowned, her porcelain features wrinkling.

"What's that thing?" she asked curiously.

Rygel did his best to look innocent. Unfortunately, the expression was so unnatural to him that he failed spectacularly in his attempt to pull it off.

"This worthless object? Who knows? I just acquired it on a commerce planet. I've been trying to decide how to get rid of it." He pulled a face. "If I try to sell it on, I'll almost certainly lose out. I'm at my wits end."

Chiana shrugged, her expression deceptively casual. "I'll take it off your hands if you want. I like it. It's pretty."

Rygel bit back panic; he realised too late that he had overplayed his part. "No, no, that's quite alright, Chiana.  I couldn't ask a friend to take a loss! I'll deal with it!"

Chiana's piercing eyes darted to his face; the edge of a smile tugged at her lips. "Oh, I don't want to sell it, Ryge. I want to keep it. As an ornament."

Rygel floundered. "Well… I…" Inspiration struck. "Chiana, I have no idea what this thing is. What if it proves to be dangerous? I couldn't bear the thought that I'd put you at risk…"

Chiana's hint of a smile spread into the genuine article. "How valuable is it?"

"I just told you…"

"A pile of dren." Chiana grinned. "An impressive pile of dren, Ryge, I'll give you that, but it's still dren. I saw those things selling for thousands on that planet we stopped at. How you get hold of any? Pawn Moya?"

Rygel sighed. Clearly the game was up. "I found a dealer who let me have one in exchange for that Rojite shell I picked up on the Royal planet. He seemed fascinated by the thing for some reason. He was more than willing to give me a sphere in exchange."

Chiana frowned. "Just the one?"

"Yes. So?"

"I think you've been had." Chiana pulled herself into a sitting position as she shrugged. "From what I could tell, those things are useless on their own. They have to be in pairs to be worth anything. And you need some kind of key. At least, that's what I understood. But if the guy sold you the one…" She grinned. "Maybe I was wrong."

Abruptly the agile Nebari flicked to her feet. "I'm outta here. I wonder what Crichton's doing…" With a quick cheeky glance back, she vanished out of the latticework door and away down Moya's golden corridor.

Rygel had the self-composure to wait until Chiana was out of earshot before he filled the air with colourful curses. Stupid! How could he have let himself be duped by a backcountry trader on an insignificant commerce planet? Why hadn't he realised something was wrong when he got the sphere at such a bargain price? For a moment he poised on the brink of ordering Pilot to turn Moya around so that he could go back and gain some kind of retribution on the smug little prabakto. Yotz!

But all was not lost. After all, Chiana was hardly the fount of all knowledge and they'd all had communication problems on that planet. It was possible the Nebari had misunderstood. And just because the sphere had eluded his logic, it didn't mean it was beyond all reason. All he needed was to solicit help from someone who would expect nothing in return….

Smiling to himself, Rygel reached for his comm.

"Pilot!"

***********************

"What was that all about?"

Aeryn Sun leaned easily against the imposing welter of flashing lights, pulsating readouts and rippling panels that made up Pilot's console, watching as the giant navigator made simple sense of what to almost everyone else on board was an incomprehensible jumble of information. She had to admit that she liked Pilot's chamber – there was something comforting about watching Moya's rhythms skip playfully across the controls and indeed about the navigator who monitored them. He was a constant, a reliable source of information that could always be found without a search, who was always prepared to listen and help where he could and who, she was sure, would never let them down if he had any kind of choice in the matter. And he was her friend, without reservation or demand. That meant the most of all.

He was also looking rather put upon.

"I beg your pardon, Officer Sun?" he said, glancing up at her with wide orange eyes.

Aeryn pulled herself up next to him, settling comfortably into her usual position on his panels as she watched the gentle motions that guided Moya safely across space.

"I said, what did Rygel want?" she asked again.

Pilot sighed substantially. "He wants me to examine an object he obtained on a commerce planet several days ago. He appears to be experiencing difficulty establishing its purpose."

"Is it dangerous?"

"I don't believe so. Moya's sensors would have detected its presence long before now if that were the case."

Aeryn adjusted her position. "Then why does he want you to do it?"

Pilot's features fluctuated; Aeryn couldn't be certain but she thought she caught a flicker of annoyance cross his face.

"Because I'm here, I suppose." Pilot's voice was moderate, even bland but Aeryn was not fooled for a microt. "I just wish he could have chosen a time when I wasn't so busy."

"Still calibrating Moya's systems?" Pilot had never adequately explained why he had felt it necessary to do such a thorough examination of all of Moya's systems after leaving the Royal planet. He had been unusually evasive about it but at Zhaan's urging, the crew had accepted his request, even though it had meant facing many solar days of erratic systems failures. Pilot had assured them that it would only take a few more days before the check up was complete and things would get back to normal. He had been working extremely hard to finish up the work as rapidly as he was able.

"It is not that the work is too much for me," Pilot commented with something close to resignation, his voice no longer so carefully controlled to shield out any stray emotions. "It would just make things a little easy if I wasn't always being distracted."

 Aeryn sat up at once, half-raising herself. "I can go, if you want. I don't want to get in your way…"

But Pilot had already raised his claw. "Officer Sun, your presence is not a distraction." He smiled slightly. "It is a pleasure."

Aeryn smiled back as she resumed her place. "Thank you."

If he had been capable of it, Pilot would have shrugged. "I have no objections to company. I just do not appreciate the extra work." He sighed again. "I suppose I'd better get on with it."

Aeryn raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Dominar Rygel wanted the assessment done at once."

"So? Ignore him."

Pilot stared at her. Aeryn stared right back. "Well, what's he going to do?" the peacekeeper commented. "Storm your chamber?" She read his blank look and frowned. "That's the problem with you, Pilot. You let people take advantage of you. You need to learn to stand up for yourself."

Pilot was already shaking his head. "That would not be a good idea."

"Why not?"

The navigator's stare was pointed – even forceful. "Assertive pilots die," he said bluntly. "The peacekeepers taught me that."

Aeryn felt a brief stab of pain. She was certain that Pilot had not meant the comment as a personal insult – indeed she noticed a sudden flicker of consternation cross his features as he realised the implications behind what he'd just said – but there was no denying that it hurt all the same. Her memories of her time aboard Moya three cycles before were still too raw to be safely discussed and she knew that Pilot shared those sentiments. She caught his gaze, read the unspoken apology in his eyes and nodded her wordless acceptance. The tension lessened perceivably.

Aeryn let the silence linger a moment longer – she carefully considered the words she would speak next.

"This ship is no longer a slave of the peacekeepers. You have no reason to fear for your life."

"I behave as I am expected to. I have no illusions about my fate should I become an inconvenience."

"I won't let that happen." Aeryn's tone was flat. "And you know it."

"You won't, perhaps. The others might."

"Do you trust us so little?"

"I have not always had reason to trust you."

"When?"

"Namtar."

Aeryn took a deep breath. "Pilot, that was a long time ago. Things have changed a great deal since then."

Pilot fixed her with his intense golden gaze. "Have they?"

It was a disturbing question – and Aeryn wasn't sure that she had an answer for it. She could assert her own opinion certainly – but could she speak for the hearts of the others?

She decided to try.

"Yes, they have. You know they have. None of us are the same people we were back then. You're a servicer, not a slave and we all know it. No one is going to be angry if you stand up for yourself. We might even be pleased."

Pilot regarded her uncertainly. "Do you really think so?"

Aeryn bit back a small exultant surge. "I wouldn't have said so if I didn't. Trust me, Pilot. Trust us all. No one will think the worse of you if you start standing up for yourself."

Pilot was gazing thoughtfully into space. "It would make my life easier if I was no longer required to perform tasks not relevant to Moya," he mused almost hopefully.

Aeryn bit back a smile. "Then say no. Take a stand. If it's not for Moya, don't do it."

Pilot cast a speculative glance at the Sebacean. "I may have to think about this."

"Take all the time you need."

Pilot almost smiled. "I might just…"

A flash of his console caught both their attention. Pilot broke off his sentence at once, skimming his arms over his panels with rapid efficiency as he examined the readouts. Aeryn was at his side instantly.

"What is it?" she asked.

Pilot's expression was uncertain. "I don't know. It appears to be some kind of transmission – on a leviathan frequency."

"A message? From another leviathan?"

"It is possible. The signal is badly fragmented. I am attempting to clarify it."

A distorted crackle rended the air – the disjointed, halted tangle of a voice flickered tantalisingly between bouts of interference. Clipped, jerky words were spat into the air, gasping and almost incomprehensible. Pilot's arms worked quickly as he fought to clean up the signal.

"…nder attack fr…." The first clear word burst through the whining hiss, disjointed, frantic but comprehensible. It was not a word Aeryn had hoped to hear. She exchanged a long look with Pilot, trying not to dwell on the ominous implications of what she had just heard.

"Can you make any more sense of it?" she asked.

Pilot shook his head. "Very little. This signal was not transmitted by conventional means. It appears to have originated from a DRD."

"A DRD?" Aeryn was astonished. "Is that possible?"

"If you know what you're doing." Pilot was still working hard. "And it confirms that this transmission originated on a leviathan."

"A leviathan in trouble, by the sound of it."

"How far could a signal transmitted by a DRD have carried?"

Pilot looked up, his features etched with tension. "Not far. A few thousand metras at most."

The peacekeeper felt the blood drain from her face. "Then they're in the immediate area."

"Almost certainly."

Aeryn was on her feet almost at once. "Alert the others and scan the surrounding space. If it's so close, why can't we see it?"

"There is a large gas giant approximately seven thousand metras from our current position, orbited by six large moons. It is possible that the other ship is concealed behind one of them."

"Find it. Trace the signal."

"I am already doing so."

"Then you don't need me here. I'll be in command."

Pilot nodded as Aeryn leapt down from his console and strode across the walkway towards the door, her mind already fixed on the potentially impending confrontation. 

"Officer Sun!"

Aeryn turned at once, recognising the tone of Pilot's voice. "What?"

The navigator didn't answer. He was staring down at his panels, his eyes wide, his features etched with a combination of apprehension, fear and horror. One of his arms was trembling.

Aeryn felt a chill. "What is it?" she repeated, more forcefully.

Still Pilot did not answer. His expression was unchanged.

The peacekeeper wanted an answer and she was not prepared to risk waiting around for Pilot to compose himself. Determinedly she strode back into the chamber. Her hand gripped firmly around Pilot's nearest arm – startled, the navigator's head jerked up to be faced with an implacable gaze.

"What have you found?" Aeryn restrained herself from shouting at the last moment, but her voice contained an edge that was unmistakable. Pilot stared at her for a microt, but then he seemed to get hold of himself. He took several deep breaths. When he spoke, his voice was shaking only slightly.

"I have found the other leviathan."

Aeryn because immediately alert. "Where?"

Pilot glanced down, checking over his readings. "On the surface of one of the moons."

Aeryn stared. "The surface? What's it doing there? Is it trying to hide?"

"Unlikely. The moon is solid rock, with little atmosphere and no vegetation. It would have him offered no concealment."

"Would have?" Aeryn caught the past tense almost at once. "Are you saying this happened a while ago?"

Pilot nodded. "The leviathan crashed approximately twenty solar days ago."

"How can you be so sure?"

The navigator met her gaze; there was pain in his eyes.

"Because that is how long Moya believes he has been dead."

*********************

"This…Capt…..Brax of….viathan Kaalene…..nder attack fr….no reason for…he just went craz…killing us one by ....he's gone insa….trying to kill us all…. no way to esc….please help us….we're trap…..ave to fight bac……nly hope we hav….."

The crew listened in silence as Pilot played over what little of the distress call he had been able to salvage. The discovery had shaken them all – they had gathered together in the command to run over the facts and decide what, if anything, they were going to do about what they had found.

"That's all there is?" Crichton leaned against the wall, his expression grim as he gazed at Pilot's ashen face in the clamshell.

"That is all I was able to recover." The navigator still looked shaken even several arns after he had made the grim discovery and John had a feeling that his disturbed state was probably a reflection of Moya's feelings upon stumbling across the corpse of one of her kind. "The transmission appears to be on a repeating loop originating somewhere within the deceased ship."

Aeryn sighed. "I think it's safe to assume there was no one left to switch it off."

"Those poor souls." Zhaan muttered a quiet incantation to the goddess. 

"But what happened to the ship?" Chiana was lounging against a console but her dark eyes betrayed a worry not evident in her posture. "From what that guy said, it sounded like they were being hunted from within. So if no one shot the ship down, why did it crash?"

Good question, Pip." Crichton turned to the clamshell. "Any ideas, Pilot?"

Pilot sighed. "I can tell you what did not cause it. There is no exterior damage to the hull of the leviathan that cannot be attributed to the force of impact. And Moya's scans have found no trace of illness or technical malfunction that could have been responsible, although it is hard to be sure at this range."

"You want us to move in closer?"

Pilot's expression became pained. "With due respect commander, that would not be wise until we have established what happened. He was a fairly young vessel and seemed to be in good health. That implies a more sinister reason for his death and I have no wish to risk exposing Moya until I can decipher what it was."

"Wouldn't it have been the impact that killed him?" D'Argo straightened himself as he walked into the centre of the command.

Pilot shook his head. "He was already dead before he fell, D'Argo. You can tell by the pattern of damage on the surface. A living leviathan is more pliable, less prone to splintering. A dead one is rigid and splits apart. Kaalene split on impact. Whatever killed him happened in orbit."

"In which case, Moya should definitely keep her distance." Crichton rubbed his chin thoughtfully with one hand. "But all the same, it might be a good idea for us to find out what we're dealing with. I say we take a transport over and check it out."

"Are you insane?" Rygel thrust himself forward on his thronesled, his expression furious. "Didn't you hear what that captain said? They were under attack! What if whatever killed them is still alive?"

"My scans indicate no life signs aboard the other vessel." Pilot interjected. "His hull has been compromised – all atmosphere has escaped. It is highly improbable that any life form could have survived so long without air or sustenance, even assuming they could have lived through the impact." 

"There you go." Crichton shrugged. "Alien no longer walks. Pilot, fuel up a transport pod." He paused, grinning at Aeryn. "Care to join me, Ripley?"

"Ripley?" Aeryn fixed him with a hard stare. Crichton shrugged.

"Just a babe I used to know. She used to get herself into jams like this all the time."

"This is hardly the time to discuss your old conquests, Crichton."

"What? No…never mind." John gave up without bothering to try. "So who wants to join me on the Marie Celeste?"

"Count me out!" Rygel exclaimed at once. "I have no desire to go poking around on some worthless corpse."

Sparky, I'm surprised at you." Crichton rested his hands on his hips, a sardonic twist to his lips. "You do realise you'll be missing out on a prime looting opportunity, don't you?"

Rygel snorted. "What items of values could there possibly be aboard a dead leviathan in the middle of this galactic backwater?"

John smiled softly. "Pilot says he's found evidence of orbital mining operations on the moon's surface. Leviathans are cargo ships, Buckwheat. What else do you think he was doing out here?"

Rygel's eyes had widened noticeably. "Mining what?" he asked with obviously feigned indifference.

Crichton shrugged. "Pilot didn't say, but it'd have to be valuable to get them all the way out here. Gold, jewels, ore – who knows?"  He paused. "Still want to miss the boat?"

Rygel paused, his eyes gleaming thoughtfully. Finally he looked up, his expression artfully reluctant. "All right, I'll come. But only to keep an eye on Chiana."

"Hey!" Chiana's squeal of protest echoed across the command. "You wanna watch me? Why don't you watch yourself, you slimy little…."

"Can we save the happy families until later?" Crichton stepped in to head off hostilities. "So are we all going?"

"I will remain here to watch Moya." Zhaan's voice was sad. "There are no survivors left for me to heal. I would sooner be spared the sight of such a noble beast fallen."

Crichton nodded quietly. "Pilot, is the transport ready?"

"It is awaiting you in the transport hanger, commander."

"Thanks." Crichton sighed. "Then I guess we'd better go get some answers."

*********************

"Hey, Zhaan. I think you had the right idea. This trip is a pleasure I could've done without."

Crichton's voice reverberated over the comm system, made breathy and shallow by the echo from the helmet of the space suit he had donned in order to enter Kaalene's broken corridors. He glanced around at the jagged remains of what had once been the leviathan's docking bay, his eyes inevitably drawn to the gaping hole directly over head, a ruthless, sharp-edged gash that seemed to bleed stars down from the dark sky into a place that should have been inviolate to their glow. The shining golden walls, so familiar to him, were no longer gentle, swelling curves, but twisted wreckage, torn asunder, it's bright beauty dimmed and tarnished by the unwelcome encroachment of space.

The decision not to land the transport pod inside the cracked remnants of this once vast chamber appeared to have been a wise one – the harsh rocks of the moon had bent and swollen the floor into impossible shapes and the piles of fallen debris would have made landing safely all but impossible. Instead they had alighted a dozen or so metras away in the smoothed basin of a meteor impact and over the protests of Rygel and Chiana, who resented the decision that they should remain in the transport pod, he and Aeryn had donned flight suits and with D'Argo, who was using breathing apparatus, they had set out across the rocky landscape to the tangled remains of the ship.

And now they were here. It was a strange and eerie sight – so much that was familiar, so much that he had come to love and think of as his home, was here a broken wreck. John picked his way carefully over a twisted pile of what looked to have been machinery, glancing to his right where Aeryn and D'Argo stood together, examining the sealed door that led into the maintenance bay.

"It's jammed tight." D'Argo's voice was oddly hushed within the breathing mask – the uninvited image of a Luxan Darth Vader flitted through John's mind. "Something on the other side must be blocking it."

"Is there another way round?" John stumbled on a broken DRD, fighting to retain his balance as he made his way to their side. This place was a death trap!

Aeryn was looking doubtful. "We could try one of the access shafts, but they might have been crushed in the impact. None of the other hangers are even remotely intact. We could try and cut our way in."

"That could take arns," D'Argo retorted impatiently. "And it could bring down the rest of the ship on our heads."

"What about down there?" John's eye had been caught by a rent in the wreckage a little way to his left. "If it follows the line of that crack, we may be able to sneak through into the maintenance bay."

"And mostly likely puncture our suits on a sharp edge and suffocate." Aeryn stood braced, hands on hips, her mouth a firm line. "It's too much of a risk for the sake of satisfying your morbid curiosity."

John felt a surge of annoyance. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I think this is a mistake. We should have left this ghost ship well alone and got out of the area."

"I was trying to help Moya. If we find out what killed Kaalene, we'll be able to protect her from it."

"We'd have protected her better by staying away."

"Well if you feel so strongly, why didn't you just stay with Zhaan and Pilot?"

"Someone has to keep an eye on you."

That was the last straw. "Me? What the Hell do you mean by that?"

Luckily D'Argo stepped in. "Stop it, the pair of you! This is hardly the time for this!"

J

ohn was too angry to care. "Well, I think it's the perfect time for…"

"Crichton, shut up!" D'Argo loomed large and dangerous in front of him, muscles flexing. Crichton almost retorted but bit back the ill-tempered words just in time. He fought down a rush of unpleasant thoughts about his two companions. He had a sudden urge to lash out, to strike, to flare up in a surge of violence that would make them regret speaking to him that way for the rest of their pathetic lives. He caught the thought, stopped it cold and examined it with horror. What the Hell was the matter with him today?

 "I'll go through the hole." D'Argo was already moving forward. "I have nothing to lose but a layer of skin anyway." He lifted a large piece of debris and pushed it aside, ducking his head as he slipped into the narrow passage. He was gone from sight a moment later but the Luxan's occasional grunts of effort implied he was making some headway.

"Is everything okay down there?" Chiana's nervous voice echoed over the comm, making John jump. "I can still join you, if you need me…"

"We're fine, Pip." John cut her off. The last thing they needed right now was another player in their bad-tempered little soap opera.  "You just stay in the pod with Rygel. We'll call if we need you."

"Frell!" D'Argo's voice echoed down the comm link, a breathy combination of awe and apprehension. 

"What is it?" Aeryn leaped on his exclamation at once. "Is something wrong?"

"No," The Luxan seemed to be fighting for breath. "I'm in the maintenance bay. We were right about these people being miners. The room is packed with cutting equipment."

"What's so frell-worthy about that?" John forced down his disgruntlement in favour of his curiosity. 

"What they were mining."

"What do you see?" Rygel's eager voice intruded on the commentary.

"Rock. Golden shards of rock. Piles of it, everywhere."  
  


"Rock?" There was an affronted tone to the Dominar's voice. "That's it? You dragged me down here for worthless rock?"

"I'm not so sure it's worthless. It's… glowing."

"Glowing?" Aeryn and Crichton exchanged a glance. 

"Well, sort of. It's hard to describe. There's a kind of golden dust that rises off it and hangs there. It shimmers like – I don't know. It almost seems to ripple in the air. It makes me feel strange."

"Strange how?" Aeryn was alert at once.

"I'm not sure. All I know is that it's giving me a headache."

"Get out of there. Now," Aeryn ordered flatly.

"In a microt."

"Now D'Argo!"

"No!" There was an abruptness to the Luxan's response. "There's something else. A machine of some kind…"

"D'Argo, I think Aeryn's right. You don't know what that stuff'll do to you." John added his voice to the peacekeeper's. D'Argo ignored them both.

"I've found something. They look like – do you remember that commerce planet we visited ten solar days ago?"

"Yeah. What about it?"

"You know those black spheres they were selling in the market?"

"The ones with the price tag that could bankrupt Bill Gates?"

"Whatever." D'Argo brushed off Crichton's comment without bothering to ask for an explanation. "Well, there's more of them here – except they're empty."

"How can you tell?"

"Because they're open."

Rygel's gasp was audible down the comm link. John ignored him.

"What d'you think it means?"

"There are various machines scattered around. It looks like they make these things here – or they did."

"Are there any spheres intact?" There was a hunger to Rygel's voice that John didn't understand. 

"Not here. I'm going into the corridor."

"D'Argo, come back." Aeryn half started towards the entry. "Wait for us!"

"Don't come through!" The Luxan's response was firm. "That passage half tore me to shreds. I can live with it. Your suits couldn't. Stay there. I'm trying to find another way for you to come."

Aeryn's face flashed with rage for a moment – John almost started forward, convinced she was about to disobey D'Argo's command. But the peacekeeper stepped back, her face set, her expression angry. In a flicker of insight, John quickly realised that he wasn't the only one having trouble with his temper today.

"I'm the cargo bay." D'Argo's voice echoed out of nowhere. "It's full of crates. It looks like…" There was the sound of breaking wood. "I was right. Spheres – completed ones. It looks like they've been packaged for sale."

The gasp of Rygel's voice was positively awestruck. "How many?"

"Hundreds. Maybe thousands. The room is jammed with boxes."

Down the distant comm link, Rygel sounded as though he was going into a mild seizure.

"Aeryn. I think I've found a way through." D'Argo's voice was calm now, even measured. He seemed to have got over his spell of annoyance. "Look to your left. Can you see a grate a little way off the ground?"

The Sebacean stepped back. "Yes."

"Can you reach it?"

"Probably, if we pile up some debris. Does it go through?"

"Straight to the cargo bay. I suggest you join me and we get this over with." There was tension in the Luxan's voice. "There's something about this place that stinks of death. I want to get out of here and back to Moya before that stink catches up with us."

************************

"It won't take you very long, Chiana." Rygel's tone was pleasantly reasonable. It always was, the Nebari had observed, when the Hynerian was trying to get his own way. "All you have to do is slip on that space suit, go down to the ship and bring back one of those crates."

"Why should I?" Chiana rose indignantly, stalking across the small command of the transport pod to slump against the wall. The nerve of the little slug, expecting her to do his dirty work! "If you want a crate so bad, go snurch one yourself."

"I can't." Rygel's patient front began to slip a bit. "Aside from the fact that space suit won't fit me, how the yotz am I supposed to carry a full sized crate on my own?"

"And you think I can? Do I look like D'Argo?"

Rygel wisely refrained from the less than suitable remark hovering on the verge of his lips.

"You heard what D'Argo said," he replied instead. "Hundreds, thousands of those spheres, all there for the taking. Do have any idea of the profit I could make? I could buy that miserable commerce planet three times over with that kind of wealth!"

Chiana crossed her arms. "And why should I help you get rich?"

"Out of friendship?"

Chiana snorted. "What friendship?"

Rygel sighed. He had very much hoped it wouldn't come to this. 

"A cut of the profits?" he offered with obvious reluctance.

There was a flicker of interest in Chiana's eyes. "How big a cut?"

"Five percent?"

The Nebari laughed out loud and waved a disdainful hand. "Forget it! I want sixty percent or nothing!"

Rygel's eyes bulged. "Sixty percent? That's robbery!"

Chiana grinned. "I call it my handling fee. I handle – you pay up." She grinned. "You don't expect me to do your heavy lifting without ample compensation, do ya?"

"Manual labourers do not get a better cut than the salesman." Rygel retorted loftily. "It's a founding principal of economics."

"Who says I need you to sell it? I can go it alone, if I need to. That way I get a hundred percent to myself."

"You don't know the buyers."

"Neither do you."

"

I have connections. I can find out. You can't."

"I could cope."

Rygel sighed. Well, he had no choice. He needed the little trelk, whether he liked it or not. And one crate of those spheres could wield a large enough profit that he could afford to share. With a sigh, he made a concession.

"All right," he said wearily. "I'll go fifty-fifty. But that's my final offer."

Chiana paused, her monochrome features wrinkled thoughtfully. Then she smiled.

"Deal," she said.

*************************

"Can you guys still hear us?"

John's voice echoed out of the golden console, made hushed and distorted by the enclosure of his face in his helmet. Zhaan wrinkled her perfect brow, fighting to subdue the dull, throbbing spot of pain that had encircled her left eye as she examined the readouts with misplaced professionalism. This Goddess-cursed headache that had plagued her ever since they had arrived in this system was starting to become a nuisance. She had tried to mediate it away, but it imposed even on her solitude of prayer, a slow, insidious, menacing ache that refused to be dispelled. Shaking her head, and trying without much success to ignore the ripple of pain that resulted, she turned her attention to business and endured.

"Perfectly, John. Where are you?" 

"Good question." John sounded fraught, his inflections unusually serious – this unpleasant task had shaken them all. "You know our plan to find the command? Useless. There is no damn command, just a great hole in the wall with a view most astronomers would kill for. Every way we try, we find great heaps of damage – some of these passages aren't even recognisable any more. We can't make sense of squat –there's no points of reference left in tact to use. Aeryn's all for risking our necks in a trek down to the pilot's chamber but with this mess, she can't even be sure where that is. We could kinda use an overview. Pilot, you listening?"

 "Yes, commander." The navigator's response was immediate.

"Can you make any sense of this maze with Moya's scanners?"

The pale hologram flickered to life – Zhaan couldn't help but notice how worried he looked and the Delvian had to admit that she shared his concern. Lingering so close to a leviathan that had died of unspecified but obviously unnatural causes was unsettling both Moya and her symbiont.

"I can try." Pilot's arms worked rapidly. For some reason, Zhaan felt he looked unusually tired. "I am having some difficulty with Moya's sensors at present. There appears to be some form of natural radiation emanating from the moon itself. It is interfering with my readouts."

"Is this radiation dangerous?" There was a note of concern in Crichton's tone.

"I do not believe so. I have detected a similar signature on several planets we have orbited in the last few solar days. It appears to be the raw form of a local power source."

"Maybe that's what the glowing rocks are."

"It is more than possible, commander." Pilot paused. "I cannot get a clear reading on the interior structure of Kaalene. The radiation is too intense around his hull. I'm sorry, commander. I'm afraid you will have to find your own path."

"That's okay, Pilot." The tone of Crichton's voice lacked sincerity – he was clearly disappointed. "Thanks for trying. I was just hoping for a quick escape. This place feels like a tomb."

"It is a tomb, John." Zhaan's tone was hushed. She fought to maintain her composure – her head pounded. "Have you seen any sign of the crew?"

"Not yet. Maybe they got away after all."

Aeryn's tone was sceptical. "Or maybe they died in corridors that we are unable to access. D'Argo, can you smell anything?"

"In this mask?" The Luxan huffed. "Hardly."

"Then we'll have to make an educated guess." The peacekeeper's distant tone was decisive but there was more – a snappish edge that Zhaan noticed at once. "That way."

"You sure?" Crichton sounded unconvinced. "If this is the corridor leading to command, I would've said we go left."

Zhaan could almost sense the long, slow, pointed look that Aeryn must have fixed on Crichton – she bit back a smile, wincing at the pain the movement caused.

"Haven't you been paying attention?" There was something akin to scorn in Aeryn's voice, a tone she had not heard the Sebacean use in almost a cycle. "From what I can tell, that side took the brunt of the impact and is the focus of the damage. If we bear the other way, we stand a better chance."

"Well, there's no need to be like that about it." John sounded almost hurt. 

"For frell's sake!" From the tone of D'Argo's exclamation, the two had been bickering for a while. "Dispute it on the move! Let's find the frelling Pilot and get this over with!"

"Agreed. This place is starting to wear." Crichton addressed Zhaan once more. "Keep a channel open for us, Blue. And make sure Chi doesn't try to come and play. Three of us desecrating a corpse is enough."

"I will, John." Zhaan looking up and gasped, fighting a wave of disorientation. She stumbled, grasping the console for support as she fought to bring her madly spinning head to a standstill. What the frell was the matter with her?

"Zhaan?" Pilot's quiet voice drew her attention at once – the navigator's holographic image was staring at her, eyes filled with concern. "Are you all right?"

"To be honest, Pilot, I'm not sure." The wash of dizziness faded, dimmed by the resurgence of the persistent spot of pain. "I have been feeling unwell ever since we entered this system."

"You too?"

Zhaan wheeled on him in astonishment, ignoring the surge of agony in her eyeball. 

"Pilot? Are you feeling ill?"

"I am fine." The navigator was quick with his reassurance – almost too quick, Zhaan thought. "It's Moya. She's….dozy."

"Dozy?" The Delvian forced back an up swell of concern. "What do you mean?"

"She has complained to me of an unnatural tiredness, almost a numbness at times. She does not like it. She believes it may be caused by the radiation." Pilot sighed. 

"Although I am not afflicted directly, I am having to work a great deal harder to compensate for her weariness. It is… draining."

She had not been mistaken earlier– the navigator did indeed look worn. "I wish to leave orbit as soon as possible. Neither Moya or I are comfortable with this feeling, especially in light of…"

He did not elaborate. He didn't need to. Zhaan forced herself to stay calm. 

"Keep an eye on her condition, Pilot. If it worsens, tell me at once."

"I will." The clamshell flickered and Pilot was gone.

Zhaan sighed deeply, fighting to concentrate over the pain. Could something so simple have been the culprit? Had Kaalene just fallen asleep?

But no; Pilot said he had been dead on impact. And it did not account for the desperate last message of his crew. There was something deeper going on here – something more sinister. Zhaan repressed a shiver. Just what terrible secrets lurked beneath that shattered hull?

******************

  It was more than a headache. It was a throbbing, pounding ache of almost migraine proportions that had wormed its way into his skull not long after setting off on the Godforsaken trip into the tangled depths of the leviathan's interior, and expanded in his brain until his head felt ready to swell and explode. John forced himself to keep moving, to focus on something, anything rather than the excruciating pain in his head. He finally fixed on Aeryn, her dark figure weaving her way through the half wrecked corridor before them, the light gleaming from her arm a beacon that forced back the terrible darkness that threatened to engulf them all. Behind him, D'Argo was a hulking shadow at his shoulder, Qualta blade held firm and strong in case of sudden danger.

And it was a possibility. Pilot's confession about the radiation had thrown doubt on his earlier proclamation that there was nothing alive in the ruins. No one had openly said as much, but the looks on all their faces as the same thought struck at once had been more than words enough. Their movements now were wary, even tense. All eyes darted from shadow to shadow, searching for the illusive and as yet unidentified danger that had so panicked Kaalene's crew as they wound their careful and circuitous way to the depths of the Pilot's chamber. John struggled to stay alert, filled with concern that Aeryn had been right, that this stupid excursion was one big, fat, unnecessarily risky waste of time as he fought to dispel the demons in his head as much as any external danger. What the frell was it with this place? First it had them snapping at each other like pissed-off wolves and now his skull was on the verge of cracking open. Was it just his headache making him paranoid, or could there really be something more sinister going on?

Damn! He wished they'd never come!

"Over here." Aeryn's low whisper dragged him out of his miserable reverie. She was standing a few yards ahead of him, peering into an open doorway as she swept her torch back and forth over the room. "Look at this."

D'Argo and John joined her. A cargo bay opened out before them, seemingly intact and undamaged and piled from end to end with a vast expanse of rock. It was dull yellow in colour, cut into sharp, vicious edged shards and scattered, seemingly at random, across the floor. The room was silent and black.

"Is this the same rock you saw earlier, D'Argo?" Aeryn's voice was husky within her helmet as she glanced at the Luxan. The warrior gazed at the spilled out ore, his expression puzzled. "It looks the same," he replied dubiously. "But it doesn't glow."

He stepped forward over the bumpy threshold and wandered into the room. Exchanging a glance, Aeryn and John reluctantly joined him. The Luxan crouched, lifted a piece of rock and hefted in his hands and he turned it over, examining it in the light of his torch.

"What the frell?" he muttered suddenly. 

John came to his side. "What?"

The Luxan rose, holding out the rock in the glow of Aeryn's searchlight. "Look at this," he said brusquely, pointing at the surface. Two dark blazes, almost like burn marks scarred its surface. "The rocks I saw before did not have these marks."

John took the stone from D'Argo's hand, looking it over. There was a washed out paleness to the stone's colouration, almost as though the colour had been leached out of it. 

"Maybe these are the duds," he suggested. "Or maybe they've been used already."

He handed the rock back to D'Argo. "Hold onto that. We'll take it back to Moya, have Pilot run some scans. If nothing else, it'll give the big guy something to do."

He turned, running his light over the room once more. Aeryn was picking her way over the loose rock to examine the far corner of the room; D'Argo was already moving towards the door. John was with the Luxan. They'd pretty much exhausted the possibilities of this little corner of Kaalene.

"Hey, Aeryn, what say we move on?" he called out, half turned towards the door. "I really want to get on with this."

The peacekeeper was facing the other way, her torch shone at the wall. D'Argo was already outside, sweeping his light over the passageway. And Crichton's own light was pointed at the floor. There was no possible way that those lights could have been responsible for what he then saw.

The light glimmered in the corner of his eye then was gone, an incandescent flash behind an ornate grate a half-dozen yards to his right. Like a photographer's flashbulb, it pulsed once and then vanished, lost before he could even raise a murmur.

"What the Hell?" John wheeled at once, his torch instantly trained where the brief light had been, his pulse pistol instantly drawn. Shadows loomed behind him – Aeryn and D'Argo were at his side at once, their own weapons cocked and ready for action.

"What?" snapped Aeryn, sweeping her light over the dark corner on which the human had fixed, both hands wrapped around her gun as though she meant to break it in two.

"You didn't see it?" John took a careful step towards the grate, not relaxing his fix with his weapon.

"See what?" Aeryn's tone was impatient. "Get to the point, Crichton!"

"Something flashed, a light, a torch, I don't know. But it came from in that vent."

"I saw a flash." D'Argo had converted his Qualta blade from sword to rifle. "I thought it was you."

"I had my torch down the whole time." Step by step, John began to edge towards the latticed bars. "Cover me."

"Don't be stupid, Crichton." Aeryn was a step behind but John waved her back at once.

"Keep some distance," he told her sharply. "If I get jumped, you'll need time to react. You'll get a better shot from there."

Aeryn started to protest, but then apparently thought better of it and resumed her position. John wasn't sure if he was glad or sorry.

The grate loomed ahead, dark and imposing, a black hole into a lightless oblivion. Crichton dropped to one knee, his pistol still grasped in one hand as he slowed reached up and eased back the catches that held the vent in place.

One, two, three….

"Shit!"

Crichton jumped a mile, tumbling back over himself as he flung the latticed grate aside, scrambling back from the leering pair of eyes that had swung into his face out of nowhere. Aeryn leapt forward at once, her light a dazzling beam as she searched for an enemy with her pistol drawn. After a moment, her eyes widened and she stepped back, lowering her weapon. Beside her, D'Argo did the same, his expression grim.

"What's the matter?" Zhaan's anxious voice collided with Chiana's – John had forgotten they were on an open comm. Pulling himself to his feet, he followed Aeryn's gaze and bit down a sudden urge to crawl into a corner and retch. 

"We..ummm… we just found some of the crew. Or parts of them anyway."

"What do you mean?"

John stared at the dismembered pile of remains with revulsion – the face that had so startled him hung upside down from a broken lattice, rocking gently at the disturbance. The man's eyes were wide, his face, a hideous, bloody rictus. His body stopped at the waist in an abrupt tear – John didn't like to think what had happened to the rest of him. The remains beyond him, thankfully unrecognisable, appeared to belong to someone else and were splattered across the half-shattered components of a damaged DRD. The human fought valiantly against a rising surge of vomit. 

"You don't want to know, guys," he said with feeling. "Trust me, you don't want to know."

END OF PART ONE.


	2. Light and Shade

Breaking Point – Part Two.

By Jess Pallas.

Disclaimer; I don't own Farscape or any of its characters. Please don't sue me!

Feedback; Go on then! E-mail me at jesspallas@hotmail.com

Archiving; If you like it, take it. But please, let me know first.

Rating:  PG although some bits are rather grim. Contains scenes of violence and fairly mild gore. Be warned.

Category; Drama, Action.

Spoilers; TWWW, DNAMS, TGAS, IET, CDM.

Timeframe; Midway through S2 probably after LATP. I can't be specific because I'm not sure myself!

Summary: The crew discover a dead leviathan whose Pilot and crew have been brutally murdered. But who was responsible – and could the same fate be about to befall Moya?

Copyright 17-09-2001.

They moved on almost at once. The sickening sight leant a hurriedness, an urgency to their journey, fuelling their desire to get the Hezmana out of this place that they all wished heartily they had not chosen to visit in the first place. John moved quickly at Aeryn's heels, his headache forgotten as he battled instead to keep himself from throwing up inside his helmet, not an experiment he wanted to try. But at this rate, he would have little choice. The image of those sick remains, brutally murdered and mutilated, refused to budge from his mind and his stomach heaved and tumbled every time he thought of it.

"The DRD," he said at one point, breaking a long silence as they wound their way down a long, battered corridor. "That flash – it must have been that DRD."

D'Argo grunted. "That thing didn't even look close to being functional."

"Well, what else could it've been?" John looked back over his shoulder at his crewmate. "I didn't imagine it, you know!"

The Luxan sighed. "I never said you did. But…"

Crichton came to an abrupt halt as he walked straight into Aeryn's back. The peacekeeper stumbled forward, pushed from her position at the apex of a bend, where she had been gazing down the corridor ahead of her. She regained her balance and shot him a resentful glare.

"Did you ever consider watching where you're going?" she snapped, but her heart wasn't in the admonishment. Her gaze slipped sideways into the corridor ahead.

John realised this was not the time for a fight. "Another dead end?" he said wearily. "Well, we'll just have to go back to…"

"No." Aeryn cut him off sharply. "No dead end. But I almost wish it had been – rather than this."

Her expression was haunted behind her visor. Reluctantly she turned her torch into the passageway ahead.

This time John did retch – it was all he could do not to fill his helmet to the brim with the contents of his stomach. D'Argo turned his face away, his expression sickened.

"Now I'm really glad I can't smell," he muttered under his breath.

The human was appalled. "What the Hell kind of creature rips apart its victims and decorates a corridor with them?" John demanded. "Skewered body parts at nice neat intervals. What are we dealing with here? A methodical psychopath?"

"It tells us one thing about our murderer," Aeryn commented in a detached voice. John could see that it was with great difficulty that she maintained her calm visage. Not even peacekeepers made such raw, gruesome trophies of their victims. A head perhaps, would be kept on display. But nothing like this. "It was not a mindless predator. There was malicious intent behind this and a desire to cause pain. These people were alive when they were ripped apart. Look at the way some of them are twisted –as though they've struggled. And the looks on their faces…"

"Enough, Aeryn." John felt queasy enough as it was. "I get the picture." He glanced at the ceiling breathing hard. "So what now?"

Aeryn took a breath herself. "We go on."

"Passed that?" John was appalled. "Isn't there another way?"

"Not unless you want to spend arns in this place."

John definitely did not want that. "Okay," he conceded reluctantly. "But would you guys mind if we switched off our torches?"

"Bad idea, John." D'Argo regarded him solemnly. "Unless you want to walk into them on top of just looking."

John fought to dispel the image. "Good point." He fixed his eyes on the ceiling and gestured to Aeryn, resting a hand on her shoulder. "Lay on, MacDuff," he said.

********************

The gruesome display in the corridor was not the last. As they approached the Pilot's chamber, the unpleasant displays came thick and fast, skewered, dismembered remains dangling preserved like a butcher shop window. John tried to avert his eyes whenever he could – he'd seen some gross things in his time in the Uncharted Territories but nothing compared to such deliberate savagery. Even gazing at the ceiling was no longer an option – the golden curves of the leviathan's passage were grimly blood-splashed, not graphic perhaps, but enough of a reminder to be disturbing. Even D'Argo and Aeryn, hardened warriors both, began to look a little green around the gills.

However, after half-an-arn or so, as they finally closed on their destination, the character of the corpses subtly changed. Dismembered, unrecognisable piles of flesh gave way to unmultilated corpses. Slumped figures lay almost peacefully, eyes closed and in tact, their withered hands gripping weapons to their chests, their countenances scarred only by dark sooty stains from weapons fire. Somehow, John found these images of death in repose easier to cope with – his desire to vomit up his shoes slowly began to fade and he actually began to look around again. He noted at once that Kaalene's walls were slashed by burns from heavy weapons fire – every so often they would encounter a cluster of DRDs, burnt out and heavily damaged from the brunt of some attack. No longer were these deliberate murders – these men had gone down fighting as they struggled for their lives against their mysterious assailant. 

Aeryn had noticed the change as well. "These people died in battle," she noted, an almost approving edge to her voice. "At least someone on this sorry ship died well."

"I'd sooner they hadn't died at all," Crichton observed quietly. "Poor bastards."

"Better like this than those we passed earlier." D'Argo commented pointedly.

John sighed. "Amen to that."

He glanced around him once more and suddenly a thought occurred. His brow creased in puzzlement. "Guys?" he said. "Am I the only one to see something missing here?"

Aeryn half-turned, her pale features a washed out ivory behind the curving visor. "What do you mean?"

John swept a hand across the corridor. "Who were they fighting? Where's the enemy?"

The Sebacean and the Luxan followed his gaze. It was true. The miners were easy to pick out, in their dusty olive-green overalls, their pale brown skin, heavy cheekbones and thick, black facial hair making them recognisable as Wrardi, the inhabitants of a neighbouring system they had skirted the day before. Scattered amongst them were DRDs, all brandishing gun barrels, mostly scorched and damaged by some manner of gunfire. But there was no trace left of whomever they had been fighting – it was possible that their assailants had been boarders who had escaped unharmed or taken their wounded with them, perhaps capitalising of Kaalene's fragile state. It seemed hard to believe, despite the implication in the distress call, that there was only one attacker, that one person could have wreaked such havoc and still got out alive. Surely this must have happened afterwards.

"So what do you think?" John said quietly. He could tell that his two companions were mulling it over just as he was. "Some guy goes space crazy, starts crucifying his shipmates, maybe even gets control of part of Kaalene and uses it to do a Durka. The ships in chaos – everyone scrambles to stop him. Some local pirate hears their distress call and comes barrelling in to take advantage. He knows the ship has those sphere things aboard and he knows what they're worth. To hide what he's done he wipes out the crew and kills the ship. He leaves and takes his dead with him."

"No," Aeryn was shaking her head. "How would an ordinary miner gain control of a leviathan over it's pilot? Durka was a highly trained peacekeeper and Moya's pregnancy meant Pilot's control was not what it should be."

"And if it was pirates, why is it there were so many spheres left on board?" D'Argo added. "Why were they not stolen?"

Crichton shrugged. "Maybe it was more than they could carry. Maybe they stole a stash from somewhere else."

"And ignore the one closest to the docking bay?" Aeryn did not sound convinced. "Be realistic, Crichton. Pirates are lazy. They won't go any further than they need to."

"Well, do you have any better ideas?" John asked, rather annoyed at the cavalier dismissal of his perfectly reasonable explanation. 

"Actually, John's idea may not be so far fetched." Zhaan's calm voice echoed down the comm. If she had been within reach, John would have kissed her. "Pilot has reported that the radiation from the planet is having a numbing effect on Moya's systems. It is possible that someone could have broken in and gained control without Kaalene or his pilot realising what they were doing."

"Are Moya and Pilot all right?" The concern in Aeryn's voice was unmistakable. "We can leave now, if she's in any danger…"

"Officer Sun." It was Pilot who answered this time. "We are both fine, aside from a mild weariness. If I sense any danger, I will alert you at once and withdraw from the area."

"Understood." Aeryn sounded less than convinced but she did not protest. 

"Maybe they were fighting amongst themselves." D'Argo rumbled suddenly from behind his mask. "It can happen. Disagreements can turn nasty and spread, especially when it comes to profit. Maybe someone got greedy and the crew split into factions."

"But what about the DRDs?" John pointed out. "Who would the ship side with?"

Aeryn stepped in. "This is a waste of time. We're standing here speculating when we could be getting solid answers. The Pilot's chamber is only a tier away."

John and D'Argo exchanged a glance. "Good point," John conceded. "Let's go."

However, they had barely rounded the next bend when they hit a problem.

"Can't we force it?" John shoved ineffectually at the large, solid golden and very well locked door that was blocking their path. "Maybe if we all push together…"

Aeryn was shaking her head. "It's sealed tight." She ran her fingers over the half-melted lock. "Someone fused this on purpose. It's beyond help. Whoever did this wanted to make sure that no-one would be opening this door."

There was a pause – the three of them exchanged a long, pointed gaze.

"You don't think…" John didn't finish his sentence. He didn't need to.

"A trap for the killer?" D'Argo looked doubtful. 

"This was where the fighting was most concentrated." Aeryn's voice was bland, even businesslike. She shrugged. "Well, there's only one way to find out." Bracing her pulse pistol in one hand and her light in the other, she dropped to her knees and wrapped her fingers around the edge of the half broken flap that allowed access to DRDs.

"Whoa, whoa, what are you doing?" John dived forward, half hauling her back. She fixed him with a gaze that could have melted steel and shook his hand away.

"Taking a look," she informed him icily. 

"Well, what if it's still in there?"

"Then it's long dead. Don't be a child, Crichton."  Ignoring the human's continued protests, she bent, forced up the damaged flap and peered inside, sweeping her light into the passage beyond. A moment later, her expression fell.

"More bodies," she reported grimly. "At least a dozen. It looks like someone sealed them between two doors and vented the atmosphere. They all look like they've suffocated."

D'Argo pulled a face. "I don't care what that message implied. One person could not be responsible for all this."

No one answered. No one could think of anything to say.

"So now what?" John broke the silence. "Do we try to go round?"

"There may be a way." Aeryn hauled herself to her feet and strode passed them to a slender grate. With a grunt, she pulled the lattice clear and discarded it unceremoniously. "This vent feeds down into the passageway that rings the chamber. If I can find a way down it, I should be able to gain access and see what I can glean from the console. You two wait here."

Grasping the edge of the dark opening, she started to pull herself up. But John was having none of it. Firmly, he reached out, caught her by the waist and yanked her back to the ground. The peacekeeper wheeled, her eyes gleaming with fury behind the swell of the transparent visor.

"What the frell do you think you're doing?" she exclaimed, roughly slapping his hands away with an angry sweep of her arm. John met her gaze unyieldingly.

"Funny, I was about to ask you the same question!" he snapped back. "We are jamming on the Marie Celeste surrounded by the extras from the Texas chainsaw massacre with God knows what did it still at large, and you want to go down there alone? No way!"

Aeryn rolled her eyes. "I can look after myself, Crichton. I don't need you to hold my hand!"

"I'm not saying you can't!" John bit back the resurgence of the rising surge of anger he had earlier suppressed. "I just think you should take us with you to watch your back! Why split up at all?"

Aeryn sighed, a long suffering, weary sigh that John had learned from experience meant that he had just said something that the peacekeeper regarded as stupid.

"John, look at the size of the vent," she said, with a deliberate, almost insulting slowness. "Then look at the size of D'Argo. He isn't going to fit and you'll find it tight. And if I take you, you'll slow me down. You don't know the consoles so you'll be no use in the chamber and you'll distract me when I'm trying to concentrate. I'm going alone!"

With an angry toss of the head, she turned her back and hauled herself up into the gaping, pitch-black mouth of the vent. John started forward, a protest on his lips.

"Aeryn, wait a…"

"No!" Her sharp voice cut short his words like a knife. "You stay! End of discussion, John!"

And then she was gone, swept into the dark in a single agile move. John glared at the ceiling as he filled the air with fervent curses.

"I hate it when she does that!" he declared.

D'Argo shrugged. "Do you think she cares?"

John smiled, a rueful grin that mixed affection and frustration. "Not a bit."

"John, D'Argo can you hear me?" Aeryn's voice rippled out of the gold net of their comms, her words a bizarre echoed stereo that shimmered in the dark refracting air. 

"Yeah, we hear you." John squinted into the dark hole that had swallowed the peacekeeper as though to spot a shadow in an oblivion of shade. "Having fun down there all alone?"

"Don't be stupid." Aeryn's insult was disinterested – she was apparently too focussed elsewhere to put much feeling behind it. "I'm in the corridor leading to the Pilot's chamber. It's heavily damaged…" There was a pause, filled by the sound of clatters and mild grunts as Aeryn distantly manoeuvred her way around an unseen obstacle. "It looks almost as though there was a battle of some kind here – there are bodies scattered all over the place, piled over each other. The doorway ahead is packed with DRDs, most of them destroyed. I'd say the fighting was concentrated here."

"A last stand?" John exchanged a glance with D'Argo. "The crew protecting the Pilot maybe?"

"It's possible," Aeryn sounded dubious. "But if so they weren't doing a very good job. They're facing inwards, towards the Pilot. If they were under attack from behind, they'd be going the wrong way."

"Retreating?"

"Or assaulting." D'Argo was fingering his Qualta blade thoughtfully, his eyes distant. "If the enemy they sought had taken refuge in the chamber..."

"And held the Pilot hostage," John finished the sentence on D'Argo's behalf as he rose, tapping a finger absently on his helmet. "That would explain a lot. Control the Pilot and you control the ship. You could do a lot of damage from that room if you knew what you were doing."

"I'm at the entrance," Aeryn's terse voice interrupted their ruminations. "The lock has been breeched. Somebody's forced their way in here. I just need to…" The peacekeeper broke off to the sound of straining metal – down the distant comm something shifted grudgingly.

"There." Aeryn sounded rather breathless. "I'm in. Now to…."

Abruptly she was silent – low breathing hissed down the comm like dripping poison.

"Aeryn?" John leapt on the pause like a hawk. "Aeryn, speak to me!"

"Frell!" The hushed exclamation was not quite what John had hoped for but it was better than nothing.

"Frell what? Aeryn!"

With the call, the Sebacean seemed to shake herself – once again she was businesslike but there was a catch in her voice that whispered that she was disturbed.

"Sorry. It's the Pilot. It's… dead."

John pulled a face. "We figured that before we came on board!"

"I know but…it's very dead. It's been blasted into pieces. By a mining charge, I think. Half the console's gone too and three of the walkways. It's a mess down here. I'm not sure they'll be anything useful left to find."

"You mean we trekked all the way down here, through the House of Horrors, for nothing?" John scowled. "Well, doesn't that just make your day?"

"This wasn't my idea." Aeryn's voice contained an element of "I told you so" that John really could have done without. His headache returned with a defiant surge, pounding at his temple like white heat. It was only with a forceful bout of willpower that he restrained himself from snapping. "So now what?"

"I'm not done yet." Aeryn sounded strained. "I'm at what's left of the console. I'm just going to… I think I can use the power cell from my pulse pistol to jump-start this panel. I think….yes! It worked! Now I need to…. What the frell? That's not right! What is going on here?"

"Aeryn?"

"I think I know why Kaalene crashed." There was a confused tone to the peacekeeper's voice. "I used the power from my pulse pistol to revive one of the panels for a couple of microts. It showed me the final readouts before Kaalene went offline. He'd been sabotaged, John. Somebody had deliberately attacked his key systems – the neural nexus had been severed altogether. They shut down all his primary functions, took away any chance of control. I think the Pilot was trying to reverse the damage, get control of Kaalene back but…"

"Someone blew him up before he was done." John raised an eyebrow. "Nice."

"The damage was like a bleeding wound and losing his Pilot was the final blow." Aeryn sounded haunted. "Kaalene's higher functions overloaded and collapsed. He died from the stress of the pain, span out of orbit and crashed into the moon."

"Killing everyone on board who was not already dead." Zhaan's voice was a ghost over the comm. "A horrendous death for such a noble creature."

There was a long moment of silence. John stared at the ceiling through the gleaming transparency of his helmet, his mind wandering back to the swamp planet where Moya had crash landed during the early days of his time at this distant end of the universe, to Pilot's frightened proclamation that the pain of interfering with his ship's neural nexus could be enough to kill her, and the shiver he had felt at the prospect. He was not sure he had ever quite believed a being as large and magnificent as a leviathan could die from no more than pain or stress – until now, at least. 

"I guess it makes sense," he muttered quietly under his breath. "Slash a few major tendons, throw in some brain damage and then kill off the means of support that also happens to be your best friend – wouldn't you wanna let go?"

"Poor Kaalene. He must have been so scared." There was a gentle hush to Aeryn's voice, a softening from the usual sharp edge of a warrior trained from birth. 

"Well, at least we now know that what killed him is no threat to Moya," D'Argo's voice was muffled by his respirator, it's echo oddly whispered. "Maybe now we can get out of this Hezmana of a corpse and leave it to rot in peace."

"Not just yet." From the sounds drifting down the comm transmission, Aeryn was once again on the move. "I want to investigate the neural nexus. I think I can reach it from here."

John sighed in aggravation. "Aeryn, for frell's sake, just leave it will you? Come back, and let's go. For someone who didn't want to make this damn trip, you're sure throwing yourself into it!"

"I want to be sure that there's no threat to Moya. I'm not leaving until I'm certain, John."

"We are certain!" John fought back a torrent of swearwords. His head pounded mercilessly. "You said he died of sabotage! And unless you're planning to start ripping out major systems when we get home, that ain't going to happen to Moya!"

"But why was he sabotaged? And who by? I just want to take a look. I won't be long."

The human felt his self-control slipping. "You're damn right you won't be long!" he exclaimed hotly, fury rising like a wildfire in his heart. Beside him, D'Argo, sensing the shift in atmosphere, took an ominous step towards him. "Because you are coming back here right now! Dammit Aeryn!"

"Frell you." The calm, dismissive manner in which the Sebacean threw back her response only served to fan the flames. John felt his cheeks begin to glow; he fought to contain the sudden, irrational rage that swamped ever corner of his mind. 

"Right, that's it!" John dived for the opening but D'Argo was quicker still – his burly arms grasped the back of his flight suit, lifting him, struggling from his feet.

"Leave it, Crichton!" he ordered sharply. John ignored him. The washes of stabbing pain seemed to swamp his senses; he felt sick, disorientated and furious. A sudden dizziness set his head in spinning circles; silver glitter rose in a gleaming curtain before his eyes. Red fire seemed to burn inside his mind – for a moment he didn't even realise that something was wrong. But then darkness rose and smothered the fire, dropping him into blackness.

*********************

"John?"

A wall of swirling darkness blocked his eyes; for a moment, he thought he had been blinded. But then slowly, steadily, the swirling, dizzying display danced to a gentle halt, coalescing into a large dark ominous mask that filled his field of vision.

"Yahhh!" John started violently, banging his head on the inside of his helmet with a sturdy thump. As he shook his head, clearing it for the second time, the image before him transformed from unnamed threat to a friend in a breathing mask, leaning over in concern.

"D'Argo!" John struggled to sit up right, pulling himself up the golden wall against which he had been propped. "You scared the crap of me!"

"And you scared the dren out of me!" was the firm retort. "What the frell was that all about?"

"I have no idea." The headache had settled down into a dull roar deep inside his mind. 

"I had this stupid headache and then suddenly I was just so angry…. I thought you were supposed to be the king of hyperage, not me! Damn!"

D'Argo was watching him carefully. "You have a headache too? And an irrational rage?"

John was alert at once. "Too? You've had the same feelings?"

The Luxan nodded. "I thought it was just me – strange rages aren't all that uncommon in Luxans. But you and Aeryn have been at each others throats ever since we arrived here and now this…" He looked around. "It's this place. It's… doing something."

"Then I say we get the Hell out." John scrambled to his feet, and looked around for the first time. A cold feeling lodged at once within his chest. "D'Argo, where are we?"

"About halfway back to the cargo bay. I was carrying you back to the transport pod when you started to come round."

"Back? But what about Aeryn?" John half turned into the dark corridor before realising he had no idea which way to go. He wheeled on the Luxan instead. "We left Aeryn? We have to go back! D'Argo!"

The huge warrior quickly raised a hand. "Relax, Crichton. She told me to take you. She thinks she's found another, quicker way back down there. She's going to meet us at the junction after next."

"How does she know? D'Argo, we have to…"

"Can you hear me?" Aeryn's voice flowed from empty air, interrupting John's exclamation. The human pounced on his comm at once. 

"Aeryn! Where are you?"

"Oh, you're awake now?" The peacekeeper didn't sound very impressed. "Do you want to tell me what the frell that was all about?"

"I don't know, it's this damn place. Aeryn, listen to me, you have to come back, now. We have to get out, this place, it's doing something to us…"

"Not now, John."

"Yes, now, dammit! Aeryn!"

"I'm in the neural nexus!" The Sebacean interjected firmly, silencing John's protests. "I've found the saboteur!"

There was a pause. "You're kidding," John exchanged a glance with D'Argo. "Are you sure?"

"As I can be. He's lying next to the severed nexus with a laser saw in his hand. That's pretty conclusive, isn't it?"

"Is he dead?"

"Of course he's dead!"

"Sorry." John felt his headache resurge at the snappish reply – he fought it down valiantly. "So who is he?"

"He isn't carrying an identity chip, John."

"Yeah but, is he a miner, a pirate, what?"

"He's Wrardi, like the miners, but he's better dressed. He may be a merchant or officer. He's definitely one of the crew."

"What killed him?" D'Argo asked.

"DRDs by the look of things. A couple of dozen of them gunned him down."

"So," John paused thoughtfully. "This guy goes psycho. He slashes up the crew, but they turn on him. He breaks into the Pilot's chamber and tries to get control, maybe even succeeds for a while but Kaalene won't play, so he kills the Pilot and…"

"No," Aeryn intervened firmly. "The Pilot died after the sabotage, remember? He was trying to repair the damage when he died."

"Okay." John paused for a brief rethink. "So he escapes from the siege in the Pilot's chamber, maybe leaves a bomb behind as a guarantee of good behaviour. He sabotages Kaalene, but the Pilot or the ship gun him down in self-defence. But the bomb goes off and kills the Pilot and then the ship. Hence the dive-bomb into the moon, killing everybody else."

John could almost sense Aeryn shaking her head. "No. Something doesn't sit right. How could one person reap so much devastation? He would have had to have been in several places at once."

"Maybe it was a mutiny." D'Argo commented. "Perhaps he had accomplices."

Aeryn was obviously unconvinced. "The message specified a single attacker."

"Perhaps he was just referring to the leader of the mutiny." 

"I'm not so sure." John heard Aeryn's distant sigh. "I don't think they're much more to be learned here. Are you at the rendezvous yet?"

"Almost," D'Argo glanced around. "It was three junctions after the room with the first corpse, wasn't it?"

"Four," Aeryn corrected sharply. "We almost went that way but decided against it. Ironic really. It would have been quicker."

"You sure it goes through?" John asked as he fell in beside D'Argo to make his way down the dark, rubbish-strewn passage. 

"I already checked, whilst I was trying to reach the nexus. I had enough time. I moved a lot faster than D'Argo did dragging you."

John chose not to respond to that, concentrating on picking his way passed a damaged bulkhead. D'Argo was a dark shadow two steps ahead, the outline of his Qualta blade an ominous slice in the darkness. The walls seemed to glimmer and bounce with refractions from their handheld torches, causing John's head to twitch and turn as he tried to follow abnormal flickers in the corner of his eye. He found himself unable to shake the cold feeling that something was watching them.

"Damn!" he muttered to himself. "Aeryn, you still there?"

"Where else would I be?"

"I dunno. Look, Aeryn do you have a headache?"

"I had one earlier. It's not as bad now. Why?"

"Cos you're not the only one. Me and D'Argo have been getting all migrainy and we both have the urge to start smashing things. Now for the big guy that ain't so unusual, but for me it's kinda strange. I think something weird is going on here. Anyone else getting echoes of Traltixx?"

"It can't be that." D'Argo responded at once.

"Why not?"

"Traltixx is dead."

"But he's not alone. There are others of his kind out there. Could Kaalene have been another light experiment?"

"It's not likely."

John fought not to get annoyed at the Luxan's abrupt dismissals of his idea. "Look D'Argo. There's fairly heavy evidence that the crew were trying to make mincemeat of each other. It sounds kinda familiar to me, especially since we've been getting snappier and snappier ever since we got here! So what is wrong with this theory?"

"Crichton. It's dark." D'Argo glanced back over his shoulder. "To be affected by the light, wouldn't we need some light in the first place?"

"What about your glowing rocks?" John jumped on an inspiration. The Luxan sighed. 

"You never even saw those rocks and neither did Aeryn," he pointed out. "So why am I calmer than you?"

"He's right, John." Aeryn's agreement only made John's disgruntlement worse. 

"Besides, as I've already said, the message specified one attacker. If it had been the kind of all out brawl inspired by paranoia, the message would have said so."

"Great," John scrambled over a pile of debris. "Another solution down the pan. Anyone else wanna crap on my theory? You know, maybe one of you guys could suggest something so I can rip it to shreds!"

"Calm down John," Zhaan's voice was soothing. "Try and stay focussed."

John snorted, kicking at a piece of detritus with a random swing. Abruptly his foot impacted solidly with something hard – waves of pain rippled along his toes. Biting back a cry, the human rapidly yanked back his foot – too rapidly as it turned out. His heel caught on something mobile, sending his ankle spinning – he stumbled sideways, his balance a distant memory and crashed to the floor with a clatter. D'Argo turned in surprise, to see his shipmate sitting on the ground, his face black as a thundercloud as he spewed fervent curses at anyone or anything within earshot. The Luxan raised an eyebrow.

"You're even more clumsy than usual," he commented. Crichton fixed him with an icy stare.

"Thanks," he drawled insincerely. Clambering to haul himself upright, his hand caught once again on the mobile object that had undone him before, slipping away to send him careening to one side. Even as D'Argo, seeing his companion was in fine form, moved over to assist him, John reached out angrily, grasping the object and dragging it into the light of his torch.

It was a DRD. But what was instantly obvious was that this was no ordinary maintenance droid. A strange looking power pack had been secured to one side and several panels had been removed, revealing an intricate tangle of wiring. One of the two eye-like antennae had been set vertical, half bound to a silver object that resembled some kind of aerial. Sporadic pulses of colour implied that unlike every other DRD on board the vessel, this one still had elements of life. A device that bore striking similarities to a holorecorder had been strapped and wired onto it's back. A tape was nestled into a prominent slot.

"What the Hell?" John came to his knees as he set the adapted DRD to rights, D'Argo looming shadowlike at his shoulder. "Hey Pilot!"

"Yes commander?" The navigator responded at once.

"Didn't you say that distress call came from a DRD?"

"That is correct."

"You still receiving that message?"

"Faintly. The signal is weak and the transmission is sketchy."

John tapped at a control on one of the exposed panels. Abruptly the flickers of life faded.

"Pilot, still receiving now?"

"No," Pilot sounded slightly puzzled. "The transmission has ceased."

John felt a surge of triumph. "That's because I just switched it off. I think I just found the recording of that distress call."

"You've what?" Aeryn appeared abruptly, melting from the darkness behind D'Argo like a piece of shadow strayed, her face pale behind the screen of her visor as she reached an arm towards the device. "Let me see." 

John came to his feet and held out the DRD to the peacekeeper, trying to hide the sudden rush of relief he felt at seeing her safely back with them.

"It's the transmitter," he told her. "The DRD that the distress call was sent from."

Aeryn held the device in her hands, looking it over by the light of D'Argo's torch. "I think you're right," she asserted. "We should take this back to Pilot. If he can restore the rest of the transmission, we may be able to finally find out what happened here."

"Which would be nice to know," John agreed. He took the DRD back from Aeryn, turning it over in his hands. "This is a pretty impressive piece of improvisation, especially considering it was done under pressure. Whoever did this knew their stuff."

"You can admire it later," Aeryn said shortly. "Right now, I just want to get out of here."

"I'm with you there." John tucked the DRD carefully under his arm and fell into place once more behind Aeryn, D'Argo taking his position once again at the rear. "How long do you reckon it'll take for us to get back to the transport pod?"

"Well, we know the way now," Aeryn replied. "Probably less than half an arn, if we move quickly."

"Then what say we up the tempo? This place is really starting to give me the…"

The flash cut across all their vision like the slash of a knife blade, sharp, fast and sudden, shimmering in a sweeping curve across the passageway before them. All three started to a halt, D'Argo and Aeryn snatching for their weapons as Crichton tried to do the same without dropping the all-important DRD. The light was gone as quickly at it had appeared, the corridor falling back to darkness as though nothing had occurred, as a slow, dark, insidious silence rose to fill the empty moment.

"What the frell was that?" Aeryn's voice was a low whisper, her pulse pistol extended before her as her eyes stroked the darkness in search of clues.

"That was like I saw earlier," John had also palmed a pulse pistol as he scanned the shadows. "But that was no damn DRD."

"It came from that vent," D'Argo levelled his Qualta blade rifle at the twisted, broken lattice work imbedded into the wall as few yards ahead. "I was staring straight at it when…"

"Stay here." Aeryn moved forward on cat's feet to where the shattered edges of the lattice clawed the wall. Pulse pistol in one hand, torch in the other, she lowered herself gently to eye level and peered inside. Her lip twisted.

"Bodies," she said brusquely. "But no sign of a light source. There aren't even any DRDs."

"Weird lights," John commented. "Want to revise your dismissal of my Traltixx theory?"

"Aeryn," D'Argo's voice was low and serious. "Switch off your torch."

The peacekeeper glanced over in puzzlement but did as she was told. D'Argo nodded to John to do the same even as he deactivated his own light. They should have been in total blackness.

But they weren't.

D'Argo and John came quietly to Aeryn's side as the three of them stared at one at the corner a few yards ahead. A faint, halo-like golden glow whispered up the walls from somewhere beyond, a distant gleam of light that had not been present the last time they had passed this way. Aeryn gestured as she grasped her pistol, indicating that she wished them to flank her. D'Argo raised his rifle to his shoulder as he moved to her side – John started to join them, searching for a safe place to deposit the DRD but Aeryn hushed him back.

"You stay behind us," she whispered, her voice a breath in the dark. "If you get the chance, take the DRD and make a run for the transport."

John opened his mouth to protest but she tapped his helmet in reprimand. "Just do it," she said. "Pilot needs to see that recording. We have to be sure Moya is on no danger."

Reluctantly John nodded, although he continued to rebelliously finger his pulse pistol. Quietly he fell in behind his two companions as they began the slow, deliberate creep towards the light. Aeryn took the lead, a lithe, stealthy figure as she moved carefully behind a concealing pile of debris. With an agonising slowness, she raised her head and peered around the corner.

At once she dropped back. John caught a glimpse of her face, confused, anxious; he felt his own apprehension rising as she quickly hurried to rejoin them.

"What did you see?" D'Argo's rumbling voice was almost inaudible.

"Light," Aeryn's features were almost invisible in the shadows. "Coming from a chamber just round there. And I think I saw something moving."

"DRD?" John asked softly but Aeryn shook her head. 

"Too big."

"Another salvager?"

"Pilot or Chiana would have told if someone else had arrived."

"Not if they were here before us."

"There are no other ships."

"And Pilot's readings are screwed remember?"

Aeryn glanced at D'Argo. "What do you think? Wait or confront?"

The Luxan looked thoughtful. "Is there another way back to the transport pod?"

Aeryn shook her head "No. That's the only…."

"Guys!" John interrupted with a hiss. "The light's moving!"

They all wheeled. It was true. The dull glow was strengthening, brightening, the shadows shifting and dancing on the walls as the light intensified, moving closer.

"It's coming this way!" Aeryn skipped backwards, her eyes searching for cover. 

There was none worth the name – only heaps of random junk and a few sharp edges. John dropped back as well, his finger itching on the trigger as he gripped the DRD with his other arm. D'Argo did not fall back, but stood his ground, Qualta blade braced at his shoulder, masked face set. He knew it was too late to run.

He was right.

In a halo of gold, it appeared.

 John had never seen anything quite like it. What had appeared at first glance to be a stretched oval of gleaming yellow light, suddenly seemed to coalesce, conform into a shape not unlike their own, a body made of flickering lightning, walking upright, with ranging limbs and a glowing head set on slender shoulders. Two eyes as black as jet stared like glimpse of oblivion, two black holes in a glorious display of brightness that seemed to suck at the soul as they fixed with alarming intensity upon the three that stood before it. It was beautiful and terrible to behold.

For a microt it seemed as startled as they were. But then it seemed to recover itself, stretching, rearing to a greater height as it's black eyes fixed on D'Argo's weapon. An almost maw-like gape seemed to open beneath its eyes, dripping fangs of lightning, as flickers of energy rode it's back and gathered around it's shoulders like a mane. It's head darted at them like a cornered snake as an almost electrical hiss filled the corridor.

"Frell!" D'Argo opened fire with a bolt of blue fire but the creature dodged it easily, it's eyes darkening like shards of night. It started forward towards the Luxan, glowing intensely, it's hand like protuberances rose before it as though it meant to strike.

"D'Argo!" Aeryn reacted instantly. Even as Crichton scrambled to bring his weapon to bear, the peacekeeper's pulse pistol was already singing, red bolts slamming into the energy being in a violent succession. For a moment it seemed to scream in shock, expanding into an ovoid ball of sparkling red and gold at it pulsed and waned.

Then it exploded.

The flash was blinding. D'Argo and John both stumbled back, shielding their eyes – between them, Aeryn was hurled to the ground with a gasp. For an instant, all was white, invisible.

Then everything was gone.

Silence roared. All was dark. Nothing moved.

A pulse of light broke the moment; D'Argo's torch. Still gripping his Qualta blade, the masked Luxan stumbled passed the massed debris towards his comrades.

"What the Hezmana was that?" he gasped, breathing heavily. John was already moving, abandoning the DRD as he scrambled to where Aeryn lay. The peacekeeper was lying on her back in the middle of the corridor, her left hand wrapped around the shaking right in which she still cradled her pistol. She seemed to be trying to rise. John slipped her arm under her shoulders and carefully helped her to sit.

"You hurt?" he asked, trying to peer inside the bowl of her helmet to see if she looked injured. The peacekeeper blinked her eyes a few times and glanced at him.

"Not really, except for my hand," she said, gently lifting the offending part. Steam was rising from both pulse pistol and glove although thankfully the material had not been pierced or damaged. "I think I got some kind of feedback from shooting that thing."

"Aeryn! Crichton! D'Argo!" Chiana's anxious voice interrupted the quietude. "Are you guys okay? What the veg just happened?"

"When we have an idea, we'll let you know." With a heave, John helped Aeryn to her feet, and moved back down the corridor to retrieve the DRD. "But right now – what say we get the frell out of here before another one of those things comes along?"

"Good plan," D'Argo had already started down the corridor. John lingered by Aeryn for a microt longer but it quickly became clear that she didn't need any further help as she moved ahead of him and hurried around the corner.

"It was in here," she said, sheathing her still steaming pulse pistol as she peered through the lattice into the dark chamber beyond. John and D'Argo came to her side.

All three exchanged glances.

The room was once again piled with dull yellow rock. Scattered across the mounds were a variety of body parts.

John cocked his head. "Anyone else think it's funny that that thing always seemed to be hanging around the dead people?"

"Can we discuss this back on Moya?" D'Argo was fingering his Qualta blade. "Right now I just want to get out of here."

"I can relate to that." John exchanged a glance with Aeryn who dropped at once into the lead, reaching for her pulse pistol. She yanked her hand back at once.

"The frelling thing's still hot!" she exclaimed. Wordlessly, John unstrapped his pistol and handed it to her. She took it with a nod and set out at a brisk pace. John and D'Argo exchanged a look and hurried quickly after.

****************************

They reached the pod in a surprisingly short space of time. A barrage of questions from Rygel and Chiana were quickly brushed aside in favour of a swift take off. A quick journey and a brief request over the comm had Pilot deftly sweep the pod out of space and safely back into the warm, comforting curves of Moya's docking bay. To the pleasant surprise of the three weary explorers, it was Chiana who offered to check the pod over on landing, leaping forward to volunteer herself for the task with an almost overwhelming keenness. Too tired to question this unexpected stroke of good fortune, D'Argo vanished with his Qualta blade in the direction of his quarters, muttering to himself about a strong need for a bath. After a brief glance at Aeryn, John disappeared to deliver the adapted DRD to Pilot, in the hope that the navigator might be able to learn something that would help clear up the ever growing mystery of Kaalene's fate. Rygel, after a hurried departure, was nowhere to be found.

Aeryn sighed to herself. Tired, achy, and still irrationally annoyed, she flung her atmospheric suit into a pile in the corner of the maintenance bay and reached unthinkingly for her pulse pistol. The searing heat against her fingertips was an abrupt reminder – cursing to herself, the peacekeeper flung the weapon down on the workbench. Just what the frell was going on with that thing? Ever since she had fired on that mysterious energy being in the corridor, her gun had been burning hot and completely non-functional. Picking up a nearby tool, she wrapped a cloth around her hand and pinned the weapon to the table, flipping back the panel to examine its circuits.

"Aeryn! What are…? Uh… you're still here!"

The peacekeeper glanced up. Chiana's porcelain face peered at her from around the hanger door, flung back and craned sideways awkwardly as she fixed her shipmate with a wan smile. Signs of strain were evident on her pale features and her shoulders were shaking. She looked as though she was attempting to carry something heavy – something just slightly too much for her.

Aeryn regarded her slowly. "I know that. Chiana, what are you doing?"

"Me?" The Nebari tried to laugh as she tossed her head – the manoeuvre made her stumble. "I'm checking the pod- just like I said I would! That's what I'm doing!"

Aeryn's expression didn't waver – her face was carved in stone. "What are you carrying?"

"Carrying?" A wash of apprehension swept like sweat across the younger woman's brow. "What makes you think I'm…?" Her words dried up on spying Aeryn's face. 

"Oh, carrying!" She flashed a smile. "This is just some old junk of Rygel's I found in the transport pod! I'll just go dump it over here for him!" 

Abruptly she was gone. From beyond the hanger door came the sound of something substantial crashing to the ground.

Aeryn rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to her pistol. She had not been working very long when the sound of footsteps behind her disturbed her concentration once more.

"Hey, Aeryn." It was John. He strode casually over to her side, peering over her shoulder as she dissected the wiring of her weapon. "Figured out what's up with that thing yet?"

"No." With a sigh, Aeryn threw down the tool and turned away. "As far as I can tell, there is nothing wrong. Every circuit is in place, all the wires are connected. But it still burns my fingers and it won't fire! I don't know what that thing did to it but…" 

She tailed off, wiping a hand across her brow wearily. Her headache had returned, with a vengeance and she felt a sudden urge to simply forget about everything and crawl into bed. She glanced up at John, read the concern in his eyes and tried to pull herself together. "What did Pilot have to say about the recording?"

"He was quite positive," John chose not to ask Aeryn why it was she had the look of death warmed up, mainly because he suspected he looked just as bad. "He reckons the tape is mostly in tact. He said to give him a couple of arns and he'll see what he can do."

Aeryn glanced at the ceiling. "Did he have any ideas about that …creature we saw?"

John shook his head. "Not a clue. Neither had Zhaan. D'you think that thing was our killer?"

"It's possible, I suppose." Aeryn fought back a wave of nausea as her skull pounded. She felt a sudden urge to hit something. How did he expect her to think rationally through this stupid pain? Why couldn't he just leave her alone?

"I think it's more than possible," Oh, why did he have to keep talking? Why didn't he just be quiet? "Every time we saw that thing, it was near someone dead. And Pilot didn't detect it through the ambient radiation so maybe Kaalene's Pilot couldn't either. That thing could have stalked them one by one, vanished in an instant and they would have had no way to track it!"

"Whatever," Aeryn could see several holes in the human's theory but she was far too tired to debate them. With a clunk, she replaced the panel on her pistol and moved away from the bench. John moved towards her in apparent concern but abruptly, she shook him away. "Look, John, I'm not feeling up to this right now. I'm just going to get some sleep. Alright?"

"Baby, you okay?" John was a step behind her at once. "You want me to get Zhaan?"

Aeryn waved him away. "I'm fine. I just need rest."

Still he would not leave her side. "You sure? Cos' it won't take me…"

"John!" The harshness in her voice startled him. "Just leave me the frell alone! I can look after myself. Go away!"

Then she was gone, a sweeping figure in black that vanished down a corridor, leaving John to stare blankly after.

"Damn!" he muttered to himself.

"Crichton."

The voice behind him made him jump – he wheeled to find D'Argo hulking over him like a harbinger of doom.

"D'Argo!" John fought down his racing heart. "Man, you have got to stop doing that!"

"Sorry," The Luxan apologised with uncharacteristic ease. His eyes were tracing 

Aeryn's retreat down the corridor. "She seems even worse than usual."

"I'll say!" John pulled a face. "I thought she was going to take my head off!"

D'Argo's expression was grim. "In fact, she is acting just like you did back on Kaalene; angry and irrational."

John paused. "And she sure looked like something was bugging her – something like a headache." He slammed his fist into a convenient bulkhead. "Oh great, Aeryn too! So when's your turn, big guy?"

D'Argo gave him a long, slow look. "I think I may have had it. When I was on Kaalene, facing that thing – I lost control. My head felt like it was being hacked apart and I could not hold in my rage. I had to fire."

John let out a long, slow breath. "I don't like this. This sounds like the kind of thing that could make rational people tear each other apart and rip out vital circuits. I think we should go talk to Zhaan – she's our resident expert on messing with people's heads. Maybe she can figure out what's screwing with us."

D'Argo nodded. "She's in the command. Let's go."

"I'm with you." John quickly fell in beside the Luxan. "I'm starting to wish I'd just stayed in bed this morning!"

Side by side, they hurried around the corner and were gone. 

There was a long pause.

 "Finally!" The frustrated declaration broke the hush as with his thronesled humming beneath him, Rygel emerged from the concealment of a large pile of boxes. "I thought those prabaktos were never going to leave! Chiana!"

"Yeah Ryge?" The Nebari's grey head bobbed into view from behind the hanger door.

"Wait for my command, I said, wait for my command!" The Hynerian buzzed across the maintenance bay, his expression almost glowing with annoyance. "I told you I'd say when the coast was clear! What were you thinking? What if Aeryn had taken an interest? What then? Hmmm?"

"Hey!" Abruptly Chiana staggered into view, a large crate gripped precariously in her slender arms. "This thing is frelling heavy! I couldn't hear anyone and I thought it was clear! How was I supposed to know?"

"You weren't! That's why you were supposed to wait for my command!"

"Frell you!" With a thump, the Nebari deposited their prize on a wheeled trolley standing nearby. "I'm your partner not your porter! Do you want to carry this thing?"

"Don't be absurd!"

"Then stop whining!" Chiana sighed, leaning wearily against the box. "So now what?"

"We get the frell out of here while the going's good!" Rygel whizzed hurriedly to the door as he checked the passage beyond for signs of life. "Crichton, D'Argo and Zhaan are up in the command, Aeryn's sleeping and Pilot's busy on that tape! This is the best chance we're going to get!"

"Get to what? Where are we taking it?"

"Somewhere secluded, where no-one is likely to poke around. We can stash the crate until the next commerce planet." Rygel beckoned with his stumpy little arm. "I've got a place in mind. Now let's go!"

"Fine!" With a huff, Chiana grasped the bar of the trolley and began to heave it forward with all her might. Ahead, Rygel was already scouting the way. After a few moments, they passed into the corridor and were gone.

There was another long pause.

The maintenance bay was still. The golden curves of Moya's hanger door glinted unseen before the scatter of equipment and boxes strewn across the floor. The bottles of Zhaan's apothecary gleamed in neat, brightly coloured rows, reflecting the golden, gentle glow that slowly pulsed and rippled in the air, streaming into the silent moment of an empty room. Softly, swiftly, the workbench began to vibrate, responding to a low pitched hum that swirled like a flowing whirlpool from the glistening ball of light that a microt before had been the pulse pistol of Aeryn Sun. There was a flash, a burst of light that no one saw, no one but the one to whom the sudden light belonged, no one but the one whose brief journey within the pulse chamber of a Sebacean gun had brought them here, to this new place.

No one but the one who now stood in the maintenance bay.

The energy being swept its coal black eyes over the sweeping walls of it's new home. So familiar, so like the one before, but yet there was one crucial difference. 

This vessel, this crew.

They lived.

For now.

It had to move quickly.

Fast as lightning, bright as the stars, it was gone. There was much to do.

*****************************

"What is the matter with these frelling things?"

With a low growl, Rygel batted angrily at the innocently gleaming heap of spheres that just a few dozen microts before had been his pride and joy. They scattered harmlessly, rolling in tight little circles on the floor of the secluded ion backwash chamber that the Hynerian had chosen as a hiding place, bouncing gently off each other's curved surfaces in their mocking dance, spiralling and spreading away. It was all very pretty – but totally irrelevant.

"Oh, that's gonna help!" Chiana's voice was a cocktail of annoyance, frustration and weariness; tightly, the Nebari came to her feet, moving quickly to herd the wayward spheres back into reach. Rygel wheeled on her at once.

"Well, what do you suggest?" he drawled, sweet sarcasm dripping from his words. 

"That we sit here and stare them into submission? Nothing's working, Chiana! You said that if we had more than one sphere and one of those key things it would work! Well, we have plenty of spheres!" He swept a tiny hand over the scattered pile. "And we have a key!" He waved the offending implement, a long silver stick inset with a crystal tip, with his other arm. "But what has this gained us? Frell all, that's what! The key does as much as the frelling spheres! Yotz!"

"Will you calm down?" Chiana wrinkled her brow as she returned to her cross-legged position on the floor. She'd had a persistent headache ever since leaving the maintenance bay and she was fighting a powerful urge to pick up the inoffensive spheres and hurl them at the more offensive Hynerian. Why was he blaming her? This whole venture was his frelling idea in the first place!

She rubbed her pounding temple with on gloved finger. "Maybe the crash busted them or something, I don't know. But does it really matter? As long as no one asks us to demonstrate them, we should be able to sell them on anyway and no one'll be the wiser!"

Rygel paused, mulling this over. "I suppose," he conceded reluctantly. "But I don't want to just part with them until I know what's inside. It's difficult to sell something when you don't know what it is!" With a frown, he tossed the key into Chiana's lap. 

"You're the one who knows all about these things. You try it!"

The Nebari sighed. Her headache was getting worse, a powerful, throbbing miasma of pain that rippled through her mind like hot steam. It almost seemed to be a whisper in her mind, a hot, burning voice that tried to call her, beckon her, to set her bones to smouldering and her heart aflame with fury. Fire flickered in her mind. She fought a sudden, overwhelming compulsion to gather up every last sphere and flush them out of the nearest airlock.

Abruptly she came to her feet, flinging the key aside with sudden passion as she wheeled on Rygel. 

"I don't know!" she almost screamed, her voice shrill and filled with heat. "Why the frell should I? I'm sick of these frelling things and I'm sick of you!"

With a toss of her head, she stormed from the chamber, leaving Rygel to stare after her in astounded surprise. For a moment, the Hynerian could only sit in shock.

"Where the yotz did that come from?" he muttered to himself. Then he frowned. Oh what was the use? He was in no mood for this now! Chiana was right anyway – what did it matter if they worked or not? It wasn't like they'd be hanging around for any dissatisfied customer to demand their money back!

"Yotz to this!" he exclaimed abruptly. Turning his thronesled, he sped from the room, sealing the chamber door with a curt flick of a switch.

He completely missed the flicker of life he left behind.

Lying discarded where Chiana had hurled it, the crystal of the silver key shimmered. A gentle rhythm caressed the silence, a slow stately pulse of soft light that seemed to roll with ripples in the air. One by one the spheres begin to twitch and spin; they seemed almost to convulse, falling gradually, and with a strange hypnotic obedience, into the rhythm exuded by the glowing key. They rolled, moving like magnetised into a neat pair of concentric circles, their silver smiles glinting upwards in a parody of laughter.

And then the smiles came alive.

Snakelike, curling like living vines, silver shards of metal sneaked sinuously free of their spherical hideaways. They reached, clawed at the air like feelers, searching, hunting, until they stumbled across others of their kind, melding together like melted mercury to form a tangled web-like lattice that arched like a shattered cone above the circles. Pulsing together, the silver web began to vibrate, sending pulses of light and sound like ripples to set the air vibrating.

The golden walls of Moya's inner hull began to flex and bend as well.

And then, gently, subtly, almost unnoticed, the insidious rhythm began to spread.

END OF PART TWO.


	3. Echoes in the Mind

Breaking Point – Part Three.

By Jess Pallas.

Disclaimer; I don't own Farscape or any of its characters. Please don't sue me!

Feedback; Go on then! E-mail me at jesspallas@hotmail.com

Archiving; If you like it, take it. But please, let me know first.

Rating:  PG although some bits are rather grim. Contains scenes of violence and fairly mild gore. Be warned.

Category; Drama, Action.

Spoilers; TWWW, DNAMS, TGAS, IET, CDM.

Timeframe; Midway through S2 probably after LATP. I can't be specific because I'm not sure myself!

Summary: The crew discover a dead leviathan whose Pilot and crew have been brutally murdered. But who was responsible – and could the same fate be about to befall Moya?

Copyright 7-04-2002.

Author's note: Just a couple of important things before you plunge into my next offering of this endurance test of a fic. *g* 

Firstly I'd like to apologise for just how frelling long it has taken me to get the third part of Breaking Point up on the net. This is due to a malevolent cocktail of determined Real Life factors including a fairly serious illness followed by a much needed holiday, problems with my computer, problems with my Internet connection, a forced relocation during the redecoration of my room and a knackering new job. As I'm sure you can see, this, on top of my prior writing commitments, has left me with very little time for fic. But I've finished part three now (after shifting the goalposts – part three was getting a little on the long side so I've cut it in half and made two parts instead!) and I'm working on completing part four. Hopefully it won't take me _quite_ so many months to get that posted. Oh and well done Dylan – your pester has goaded me into action!

Secondly and more importantly – it has been brought to my attention that the early parts of this fic bear a certain resemblance to a different work; "Crichton vs Predator; in the Belly of the Beast" by Spacelord, which can be found elsewhere on this site. I would like to stress wholeheartedly that I had not read this fic prior to beginning Breaking Point and that it was never my intention to steal or copy his ideas – after all, what's the point of writing a story if it's already been written? Any and all similarities are entirely co-incidental and I can only put it down to the old adage "great minds think alike" and suggest that if you like this fic, you should go and try Spacelord's too!

Thanks for listening. Now onto the fic!

"Yoww! Dammit!"

John Crichton swore loudly, filling the air with curses as he wrung his tingling fingers with his free hand, pausing from his display of profanity only briefly in order to kick an inoffensive bulkhead. A sore toe was added to his list of injuries.

 "What is this, does nothing on this ship frelling work?" he roared at the golden curves overhead, restraining himself with great effort from kicking the bulkhead a second time. What was going on with Moya today? Already, since his and D'Argo's unenlightening chat with Zhaan in the command, he had been scalded by the supposedly relaxing shower he had then taken, tripped by an inattentive DRD whilst searching for his clothes and now had received a powerful electric shock from the door control leading to Pilot's chamber. Already fighting the remnants of rage left behind by the creeping remains of his headache, it was with some difficulty that he calmed himself from this latest disaster in order to reach for his comm.

"Pilot, I'm outside your chamber and the door lock just tried to fry me. Any chance you could let me in?"

There was no response. John let out a breathy sigh. Great. Now the comms. This was all he needed.

"Pilot!" he bellowed again. "Dammit, will you let me in?"

"There is no need to shout." Pilot's voice was a smooth ripple out of empty air.  "I heard you the first time."

John crossed his arms, his features creased in a frown as he slumped against the wall. 

"If you can hear me, why haven't you opened the door yet?"

"The door lock is malfunctioning," There was a testy edge to Pilot's voice, an unfamiliar touch of annoyance that was rather out of character. "It will take a few microts to repair. Please wait and be patient."

"Yeah, fine, whatever. Just hurry it up, okay? I've had a long day and I want some sleep."

"A malfunctioning door is no reason to keep you from your rest."

"Yeah, but curiosity is. I'm not going to be able to sleep with that Kaalene business buzzing round my head."

Abruptly there was a clunk and a whirring of machinery. The dock lock released with a chitter, the golden door sweeping aside to reveal the cavernous depths of the chamber beyond. John pushed himself upright, wondering as he did so what he had done to deserve a day like this one, and strode onto the walkway.

And stopped. Dead.

Staring at Pilot.

He knew he mustn't laugh. It was an instinct, based on a desire to survive, and he had a feeling that, judging by the disgruntled expression on the navigator's face, he would not long be of this world if he so much as cracked a smile at the strange sight laid out before him. Determinedly, John swallowed the rising grin attempting to creep its way across his cheeks and forced himself to calmness. When he finally spoke, his voice was impressively level.

"What happened?" he asked blandly.

Pilot fixed him with a suspicious stare. White goop trickled down his vast carapace to drip rhythmically into the already well-formed lakes of syrupy liquid strewn across his panels, overflowing in turn to leak down the sides of his controls like some rampant, creamy volcano. The sticky substance was everywhere, splattered across the console, the walkway and most notably over Moya's navigator, staining his purple skin with creeping lines of cream. A cluster of DRDs were working feverishly to mop up the mess all under the watchful supervision of the mightily peeved Pilot. His expression was one of great offence, his mouth set hard, his eyes cold under slanted brows, his claws almost seeming clenched as he struggled to maintain his dignity beneath a curtain fall of white.

"The Amnexus conduit above my console ruptured." Pilot's tone carried echoes of an Alaskan winter – his expression was dark. "As you can see, I am very busy trying to clean up the mess. Please state your business quickly."

_And leave_… John sensed the words without hearing them, whispered in an undertone of irritation and annoyance that vibrated in the navigator's statement. He wasn't the only one having a bad day.

"I just wanted to know if you'd made any progress with that recording." Pilot paused, glancing up from his work as the human tried to smile. "That Kaalene business has put us all on edge and I was hoping that if we could resolve it…." He tailed off. Pilot's expression was unchanged. His gaze was fixed and vaguely hostile.

"I have learned nothing further." The words were snapped out like a machine gun round. "The recording was too badly damaged to reveal any further data."

John stared in disbelief. "What?"

"There was nothing left to be recovered other than what we had already received. I am sorry, commander, but you will have to find your answers elsewhere." There was a dismissal in Pilot's tone – abruptly, he turned back to his console. "Was there anything else?"

"Wow, hold on a second." John stepped forward, carefully avoiding a puddle of gunk. 

"A couple of arns ago, you told me you could fix it, no problem!"

Pilot sniffed, not bothering to look up from his all absorbing work. "I was wrong."

"You were certain!" John could barely believe his ears. "You said the damage was minimal, that it was in tact and could be recovered. And now you're saying there's nothing? Zilch? Squat?"

"Your grasp of the obvious is astounding, Crichton." Pilot's eyes flicked up, his golden gaze streaked with unmistakable darkness. "Now that we've established that your device is useless, do you have any other reason to bother me?"

John stared at the unexpected retort, the harshness of the words, the sudden tetchiness. _Boy, that gunk bath must have really pissed him off_, he thought to himself_. He doesn't usually shoot back like that._

Unless…

Uh-oh.

"Hey, Pilot," John tried and failed to hide the anxiety in his voice. Had the strange irritation of Kaalene somehow spread to those on Moya? "I don't suppose you've got a headache, have you? And an irrational urge to lash out?"

"I don't get headaches." The response was immediate and firm. "And my only reason to lash out would be that Moya's systems are malfunctioning for no apparent reason and you are keeping me from co-ordinating repairs! So if you don't mind…"

"Moya's systems…" John's ears pricked up. "Something's up with Moya?"

Pilot sighed. "That's what I said, wasn't it? I believe it may have had something to do with the numbing effect from the ambient radiation of Kaalene's moon. It has thrown out the balance of the systems overhaul I was performing and now systems are failing faster than my DRDs can fix them! So you see Crichton, I really do not need this irrelevant interruption!"

"Why didn't you say something earlier?" John leaned forward against the console, peering at the mad flash of the controls beneath the puddles of amnexus fluid. Pilot hesitated, glancing up at the human, his features unreadable. Abruptly, he seemed almost to deflate, his claws hanging limp, his head bowed and his expression tired as he sighed deeply.

"I thought I could manage without bothering you," he said, his tone suddenly containing an edge that was almost conciliatory. "You were all so tired after the encounter with Kaalene; I did not like to disturb you. But then everything escalated at once and _this_ happened." He gestured irritably with one claw at the ruptured conduit. John smiled. "I can see why that might piss you off," he said with a nod. "Tell you what. I'll go round up the guys and we'll see what we can do to help. That way we can…"

"Pilot! Pilot, I demand that you answer me!"

Rygel's strident voice stung through the air like a lightning bolt. Pilot's head snapped up; his expression darkened immediately. His mouth twisted into a frown as he reached for the comm control.

"Can I help you with something, your eminence?" There was a whole world of sarcasm underlying those eight simple words. Rygel somehow missed it.

"Yes you frelling well can! My food tray has spilled all over my quarters and your yotzing DRDs are refusing to clean it up! I insist that you rectify this immediately!"

"Insist?" There was a dangerous edge to Pilot's voice. John rested his head softly in his hands. _Oh, God,_ he muttered silently. _Sparky, you little moron!_

"Yes, insist!" The Hynerian, far removed from the Den, was oblivious to the danger. "Now!"

Pilot drew himself up. Rage glittered darkly in his eyes. John rather prudently raised his head and backed out of range of the console and the explosion that was almost certainly imminent. This was not going to be pretty.

He was right.

"Well, your eminence," Pilot's voice was dripping with venom. "Perhaps if you spent less time on your lazy backside insisting things and more time actually doing something, others would be more inclined to help you! I happen to be extremely busy! No, be quiet!" The sharp admonishment crushed Rygel's spluttered protests. "Moya is suffering difficulties and she is my concern, not your petty housekeeping problems! You made the mess, you clean it up! If it doesn't affect Moya, it doesn't involve me! From now on, you can find someone else to take advantage of! I will not be imposed on for trivialities! Now leave me alone!"

Abruptly, the navigator severed the link and sat back, glowering in fury as he snapped sharp commands into his controls. John could only stare. He could hardly believe what he had just witnessed. Pilot, the very essence of restraint, going off on one at Rygel over nothing. True, most of those on Moya had wanted to shout at Rygel for one reason or another, but Pilot? Something wasn't right here. He had snapped before, but only under the most harrowing of personal circumstances. And even with the technical problems and Kaalene taken into consideration, this hardly compared.

What the frell was wrong with him?

 "Pilot," John knew it was dangerous, but he stepped into the firing line anyway. "Chill, man. Cool it. Rygel's an annoying little slug, but that wasn't called for."

There was a lengthy silence. With a slow menace, Pilot's head rose, carapace shifting shadows like flitting wraiths fleeing before a gaze of angry steel. There was grim death written large in his every feature.

"Are you still here?" he drawled, not so latent threats echoing in every measured word.

John felt the full force of the steely glare and melted beneath its power. It was definitely time to leave.

"I'll go get the others and start those repairs!" The tumbling words could not leave his lips fast enough. He tried to turn and stumbled, almost falling as his foot slid in a puddle of goop. Arms waving, balance teetering, he turned and fled from the room and the stare of death that followed his departure. He staggered into the corridor, breathing hard and glanced over his shoulder.

The door slammed shut behind him.

*****************************

Ka D'Argo sighed and pulled a face as he strode imperiously down one of the indistinguishable golden corridors that formed the labyrinth of Moya's interior. A solar day had passed now since their unpleasant encounter with Kaalene and her dismembered crew, a solar day not spent in rest and recovery but in fevered, concentrated repair work, in a desperate and increasingly futile bid to stay on top of Moya's ever growing inventory of systems malfunctions. Pilot, it seemed, had long ago abandoned his rather hopeless attempt to handle the spiralling whirlpool of problems himself – instead he had taken to delegating duties to the crew who had accepted these never ending assignments with the weary condemnation of the damned. 

And D'Argo was feeling extremely damned. He had just spent five gruelling and infuriatingly frustrating arns trying to trace an apparent malfunction of the comm system, trudging his way from one tier to the next, peering into flawlessly functioning holographic clamshells and at inscrutably perfect bundles of cables in search of an unseen and seemingly nonexistent flaw. Nothing had revealed it's secrets, despite Pilot's continued insistence that it was vital he continue and finally, after the latest investigation had yielded nothing, he had thrown up his hands, tossed aside his tool and pounded away in the direction of the centre chamber. Repairs could go to Hezmana. He needed a break.

He was therefore in no mood for what happened next.

"Frell!"

Out of nowhere, he was falling. His suddenly clumsy feet scrabbled to maintain at least a semblance of balance, his flailing arms waving and groping in search of something to save him from an embarrassing tumble to the golden floor. Abruptly his hand caught upon something solid, one of the arching ribs of Moya's wall and his reeling mind snapped into action as he slapped his other hand against it and hauled himself quickly back upright. He paused, breathless and confused for a microt, leaning, wild eyed against the bulkhead as he sought to regain his composure. What the Hezmana had just happened?

He turned.

And growled.

Because sitting in the centre of the corridor, eyestalks waving and innocent as you like was a single DRD.

Dark thoughts swelled in D'Argo's mind like a gale upon the tide. Make a fool out of him would it, the frelling little box of parts? It dared to send him flying down the corridor? Inanimate or not, the Luxan's angry mind demanded nothing less than total retribution. He was going to make the impudent droid pay for his humiliation!

With two quick strides he closed on his prey. The DRD almost seemed to sense it's fate – antennae twitching, it started to retreat. But it was too late now. D'Argo's powerful foot swung in a dangerous, unstoppable arc – with a mechanical squeal the hapless DRD was flung into the air. It came down with a tumble a goodly way away, bouncing and clattering to a standstill, little tracks whizzing as it rotated helpless on one side. Its eyestalks pulsed dizzily – a yellow panel hung loose from one battered side. Scratching at the floor with its attachments, it struggled to right itself.

D'Argo felt much better.

Smiling slightly to himself within his beard, the Luxan turned and started back down the corridor towards his original objective. It was astonishing how a little mindless violence could be so therapeutic. His aggression had drained away in this rapid release and he was starting to feel almost cheerful again. Perhaps he wouldn't need that break after all….

The pain was sharp and sudden, a stabbing rush of agony that pierced his lower ankle. D'Argo bellowed, hoping on one leg and slumping against the wall as he clutched at the angry burning hurt in indignant confusion. A single glance revealed the source of his pain – clear blood was leaking in sinuous globs from a small tear in the side of his boot. Something had skewered the tender flesh of his foot.

He looked down.

Two twinkling lights shone back. A small metal poniard protruded from the damaged panel, dripping with clear Luxan blood. Something not unakin to a malevolent gleam shimmered beneath the motionless eyestalks.

With a roar, D'Argo barrelled forward, his injured foot sweeping in a furious curve towards the object of his wrath. But the DRD was not to be caught so twice – it rolled easily aside and darted in with a quick jabbing strike, puncturing the skin of the Luxan's other foot. D'Argo howled with pain and wheeled but the droid had already back-pedalled out of reach, it's loose panel clattering on the skinsteel floor as it hovered on the edge of the passageway, waiting for a chance to strike again.

For a microt, D'Argo almost charged again. But the seeping throb of his ankles stayed him just in time as he eyed the malicious little beast with a sudden wariness. Never in his experience aboard Moya had a DRD turned on him of it's own accord for taking out his temper. Indeed, it should not even have been possible, for Moya's mechanoids were designed to act only as directed or programmed by Moya, Pilot or one of the crew and he had certainly not instructed them to stab him in the feet.

Unless…

"Pilot!!!"

"Yes, Ka D'Argo." The navigator's voice was a sea of calm in the raging ocean of D'Argo's fury.

For some reason, the sound of Pilot's precise voice infuriated the Luxan all the more. 

"_What_ is going on down here?" he demanded, eyes tracing the path of the DRD as it slowly began to circle him once more. Instinctively he reached over his shoulder for his Qualta blade before belatedly remembering that he'd left it in his cell. His eyes darted across the corridor in search of a weapon. The only one in sight was gleaming with his blood.

"I beg your pardon?" There was confusion in Pilot's tone. "Is there something the matter on your tier?"

The aggressive DRD made a rapid feint towards the Luxan. D'Argo danced back, his fists clenched furiously, as he lowered himself to a half crouch, ready to grasp the yellow menace the next time it fell within his range.

"You mean apart from the fact I'm under attack from one of your DRDs?" he snapped down the comm line, eyes never leaving his opponent's light-stalks. It was hard enough reading intent in an enemy's eyes. How were you supposed to read intent behind the unblinking bulbs of a machine?

"A DRD?" Pilot sounded perplexed. "I am not reading any DRDs within your vicinity, D'Argo. Are you certain?"

Was he _certain_??? D'Argo felt rage flash-flood its way through his already turbulent mind. What kind of a question was _that_????

He was right on the verge of delivering a blistering remonstrance when the angry DRD surged at him, its vicious weapon waving as it darted close in search of flesh. D'Argo leapt back, just avoiding it's sweeping assault with a well timed leap and grasped the wall behind him in a desperate bid to keep his balance.

The pain was almost blinding. His skin burned with shooting waves of agony as he clutched it in his fist in disbelief, staring at the red raw sear of fire that had a moment ago been the back of his hand. His head snatched up to the wall at once; his eyes widened in shock.

Two eyestalks gleamed. The red glow of a laser welder glimmered across the golden walls.

Another one?

"D'Argo?" Pilot's voice was awash with concern. "What's the matter?"

"What's the matter?" D'Argo repeated, his voice a cocktail of confusion and fury. "There are _two_ of them!"

"My readouts still show nothing." There was a note of anxiousness in the navigator's tone. "If there are DRDs in your vicinity, they are no longer under my control."

D'Argo gripped his injured hand, his legendary impatience rising. "Then whose control are they under?"

"I do not know." There was a thoughtful pause. "No, wait. I did lose some DRDs on that tier earlier today. But Commander Crichton assured me the problem had been solved."

"Crichton," The name hissed out from between D'Argo's gritted teeth. "When I get my hands on him…."

 A spark of red fire from the new arrival distracted his attention. D'Argo stumbled back, staggering to keep his balance but jerked quickly away as he felt a sharp pain in his heel. He caught a glimpse of his maniacal first victim wheeling away, fresh blood dripping onto his servos.

It was definitely time to leave.

Stumbling on painful feet, his agonised hand gripped within the cradle of his arm, D'Argo abandoned all thoughts of vengeance and hurriedly beat a hasty retreat. He sensed rather than saw their pursuit, eyestalks waving, tracks spinning, weapons sparkling against the gleam of Moya's interior lights. He increased his speed, staggering desperately towards the bend in the corridor and distant escape, hardly able to believe in his warrior's mind that he was running from two mobile boxes of wiring and servos.

He rounded the corner.

And stopped. Dead.

Several dozen eyestalks turned on him as one.

**********************

Rygel was disgruntled. It was not an emotion he considered worthy of a Dominar – better perhaps would be "regally distressed" or "discontented" – but he was honest enough deep down inside to admit that disgruntled was probably closest to the mark. After Pilot's personal and entirely unprovoked verbal assault on the spluttering Hynerian, Rygel had decided to take a stand, refusing point blank to assist in any repair work until the navigator made a full and unconditional apology _and_ cleaned up the spillage in his cell. Pilot's response – a more restrained but none the less quite emphatic refusal – had been less than he had hoped for and so, despite the angry protests and occasional threats from his overworked shipmates, he had nonetheless set up state in the centre chamber and refused to lift a finger.

And now he was disgruntled.

He had expected Pilot's apology to follow swiftly once he took his stand. But the navigator, showing an unexpected stubborn streak, was having nothing to do with it. On the first occasion that Rygel had plucked up the courage to comm Pilot to see if he was weakening, the navigator had rather bluntly pointed out that he was far too busy to waste time massaging the ego of a being whose ego could already dwarf many small planets and that if he was expecting him to apologise for speaking the truth, then he would be waiting an extremely long time. At that point he had rather brusquely ceased the transmission and Rygel had not heard a word from him since.

Or at least, not a verbal word. The Hynerian was starting to wonder just what impact the stress of Moya's difficulties was having on the navigator. He seemed remarkably unlike himself – bad tempered, adversarial and even bluntly insulting at times - a far cry from his usual appearance of polite, precise efficiency, and it was this sudden change that had led Rygel to suspect something that would not even have crossed his mind before.

Was Pilot out to get him?

Because after the day he'd just had, he was starting to wonder. He had returned to his cell after an unsatisfactory lunch to find not only the spillage he had originally reported but also a puddle of ruptured amnexus fluid seeping insidiously across his bed and into the crumpled remains of what had been his primary cache of food. Since particular accident had most definitely been Moya's fault, Rygel had at once complained to Pilot who had informed him, with distant superiority, that his quarters were hardly a priority and that he would get to them in time. Annoyed, Rygel had returned to the centre chamber in search of food only to discover their food dispenser wasn't working either. After this complaint had been logged, Aeryn had appeared, and told him in no uncertain terms to get out of her way whilst she made repairs. Now angry and very hungry, Rygel had made a tour of his hidden stores of food and had discovered, to his horror, that a good half of his hoards had been spoiled beyond edibility by spillages, damage and DRDs.

And it was all starting to feel very personal.

So when Aeryn had reported the food dispenser repaired, he had returned to his favourite haunt and settled down before a plate of food to eat and be disgruntled.

He was halfway through a particularly bitter food cube, staring with absorbed irritation at his almost empty plate when he heard the whoosh of the chamber door and the soft patter of light footsteps approaching him. He ignored them deliberately, in no mood for company, ripping off another mouthful of food cube with angry determination.

"Hey Ryge." The voice was Chiana's – out of the corner of his eye he saw a lithe grey figure slump onto the stool beside him. He felt a swell of irritation at the intrusion on his sullen reverie.

"Go away." The Hynerian's response was blunt and uninterested. "I'm not going to help until I get a full apology from Pilot so don't try and talk me round. I'm having too bad a day to be told off by someone with less scruples than a Zenetan Pirate!"

"Hey!" Chiana protested loudly. "Did I ask for that? And you think _you're _having a bad day? Have you taken a look at _me_?"

Rygel glanced up in spite of himself. He stared.

"What the yotz happened?" he exclaimed, eyes sweeping over the dripping form of the Nebari girl. "Did you take a bath in amnexus fluid?"

Chiana pulled a face, wiping a sticky strand of hair out of her face as liquid tricked down her cheek to drip onto her saturated clothing. "I was working on a conduit when the frelling thing ruptured all over me. Didn't have time to get out of the way." The grey thief sighed, resting her pale, glistening face against the equally damp palm of her hand. "And since I wasn't feeling so good anyhow, I decided to call it quits." She frowned. "I've had a headache all day and now I'm all dizzy. I think I might have to go talk to Zhaan."

Rygel was barely listening. A nasty suspicion was growing in his mind.

"Chiana," he said thoughtfully. "Have you offended Pilot lately?"

"Not that I know of." The Nebari fixed him with her dark eyes. "Why?"

"Because I think he's out to get me." Rygel threw caution to the wind. "Everything that matters to me has been under assault ever since I made the mistake of asking that four-armed prabakto to do me a favour! My food, my quarters, everything! And now you get covered in fluid from a ruptured conduit! What are the chances of that?"

"At the moment, pretty good." Chiana smiled wanly. "If you'd have been helping out with the repair work, you'd have known that the amnexus system is shot to frell – conduits are rupturing all over the ship. It was always gonna happen that someone would get gooped and it happened to be me. You know it got Pilot yesterday; which is probably why he's so frelled off. Its just Moya, Ryge. No one's out to getcha!"

The little Hynerian frowned grimly, as he made his way to the food dispenser for a second helping. "I wish I could be so sure."

Chiana waved a damp dismissive hand. "Just relax. It'll blow over."

"Hmph!" Rygel muttered indistinctly, reaching forward with one stumpy arm to open the lid on the food dispenser. "I just can't….."

The sudden impact was a rude interruption. Rygel froze, his words dying on his lips, his arm still holding the golden panel aloft, his beady eyes darting back and forth in an anxious search for answers. What the yotz was that?

Chiana had been gazing disinterestedly at the ceiling but upon noticing her companion's distraction, she shifted her attention.

"What's the matter with you?" she drawled. "You don't usually stop so close to food."

Rygel was still trying to establish exactly what had happened himself.

"Something hit me," he declared, his tone a mixture of indignation and perplexity. "Right between the eyes!"

"Huh?" Chiana frowned, damp grey features crinkling. "What? And why?"

"I didn't see." Rygel glanced over at the Nebari. "And as for…"

The second blow struck the side of his face. This time Rygel dropped the lid, reeling back on his thronesled as Chiana came to her feet with wide eyes. The Dominar drew himself up furiously, as he rounded on the small brown object that was bouncing to a standstill on the lip of the dispenser and stared again in disbelief.

It was a food cube.

He was attacked by a _food cube_?????

"What the frell?" Chiana had appeared at his side, dark eyes wide. "I saw that! That cube just flew out of nowhere!"

"Not out of nowhere," Rygel corrected, rubbing the sore patch on his face with haughty irritation. "Out of the dispenser!"

 The Nebari glanced down at the Hynerian. "You don't think…" Abruptly she turned on the clamshell. "Pilot?"

The holographic face of Moya's navigator flickered into life. "Yes, Chiana?"

The girl stared back with an uneasy expression, fingering the tool strapped at her waist with disconcerted concern. "Ummm, Pilot are you detecting any life-forms in here? Apart from us, I mean."

Dutifully, Pilot checked his readouts. "I see no one but yourself and Dominar Rygel. Is there a problem?"

Chiana sighed, her cat-like body twitching nervously. "This is gonna sound kind of strange but… someone's throwing food cubes at Rygel. From in there." She gestured at the food dispenser sitting serenely in the centre of the chamber.

Pilot's hologram raised an eye ridge. "I find that highly unlikely."

"It's true!" Rygel protested at once. "We both saw it! Someone threw that food cube!"

Pilot's tone was wearily patient. "I suggest you take a closer look. It is probably a malfunction in the conveyor system."

Rygel and Chiana exchanged a long, pointed glance.

"You go." The Nebari jerked her head towards the dispenser, as she slowly slid her tool out of view.

"I'm not doing it!" Rygel drew himself up on his thronesled. "In case you've forgotten, I'm on strike!"

The Nebari reeled on him. "It's your problem!"

"It hasn't attacked you!"

"Fine!" Chiana threw up her still-dripping hands in disgust. "Just… Fine!"

Palming her tool in one hand, the Nebari thief slunk forward, eyeing the food dispenser as though it was a circling beast. Slowly, warily, she inched forward as though she expected it to rear at her at any moment, casting nervous glances over her shoulder in Rygel's direction. Her dark gloved hand closed cautiously over the release.

"This ship is creeping me out!" she muttered under her breath.

Carefully, slowly, she lifted the lid.

The food cubes attacked in a barrage, a successive, never ending flow of brown chunks that hurled themselves threw the air to slam one after another into the pale skin of the Nebari. Chiana screeched and leaped back, dropping the golden panel in a combination of shock and self-defence; food cubes clattered to the floor all around her, several crushed beneath the tumbling guillotine of the lid as suddenly the blast zone was coated in valuable supplies. Rygel drew back with a gasp, staring at his shipmate, who stood frozen amidst the carnage, her already sticky skin now coated with battered swaths of crumb.

"You see?!?!" he declared indignantly, his fervent exclamation apparently aimed at both Pilot and Chiana. "I told you so!"

Chiana turned her head with slow menace. Her eyes glittered darkly.

Pilot intervened, his voice a wash of indifferent detachment. "The conveyor is malfunctioning; I recommend that you not lift the panel again. I will speak with Officer Sun about it immediately. She informed me that it had been repaired."

Abruptly his image was gone, leaving his two shipmates to gaze at each other across the silence. Slowly, almost deliberately, the rather shell-shocked Nebari lowered herself onto a nearby stool, reaching up to peel away a chunk of cube that had secured itself at a bizarre angle on her nose. She lifted it between two pinched fingers, examining it absently with wide jet eyes and then with deliberate precision, she lowered it onto her forefinger and flicked it away.

"I don't know about you, Ryge," she drawled softly. "But I'm not hungry anymore."

The whirr of the door made them both start. Chiana darted to her feet, groping belatedly for a weapon before remembering she wasn't armed; she settled instead for brandishing her tool with rather unimpressive menace. Rygel had already darted his thronesled behind the table, peering out from behind a leg with a worried little frown.

The door drew back. A gigantic shaped loomed before them, silhouetted by the fluctuating malfunction of the corridor lights, a dishevelled, towering block of muscle trailing tattered streamers of material, its hair a mass of static as it staggered forward at a jerking limp to move into the light.

It was D'Argo.

There was a long pause. 

Chiana stared at D'Argo. D'Argo stared at Chiana. Rygel stared at them both.

Three sets of eyes blinked as one.

"What the frell happened to you?" The Luxan and the Nebari spoke in tandem, their words blending into each other with unexpected harmony. Both paused at the unexpected unity, their eyes once again running over the figure before them just to reassure themselves they had seen aright. D'Argo was, for want of a more diplomatic term, battered, to say the least, his maroon robe hanging from his body in fluttering rags, his boots a torn pincushion of holes smeared in his own clear blood, his red hair strangely static as it arched out from his body on an almost horizontal plane. His eyes were wild, his features contorted with indignant rage, but a flicker of curious confusion could be detected in their depths as he examined the state of his lover. His expression grew astonished as he took her appearance in, a slender vision coated in sticky cream goop, scattered from head to food with food cube crumbs, appearing almost as some strange delicacy on a distant alien's table.

From behind the table, Rygel softly sniggered.

It was D'Argo who broke the stalemate with a huffy sigh, storming across the chamber to slump down on a stool. He glared from Rygel to Chiana, his expression threatening.

"_Don't_ ask!" he intoned firmly. "Have either of you seen Crichton?"

"Not me!" Chiana dropped onto the seat beside him. "Ryge?"

The Hynerian shook his head as he emerged from behind the table. "Not since yesterday. Why do you ask?"

D'Argo stared at the ceiling, grim death written upon every feature.

"I'll tell you why!" he declared in a low, menacing growl. "Because I was just assaulted by a herd of DRDs that _he_ was supposed to have _fixed_! And when I get my hands on him, I'm going to kill him – slowly." His eyes grew absent, his expression ever so slightly malevolent as he pictured the scene in his mind. Chiana sighed.

"We know how that feels," she said dryly. "Rygel and I were just assaulted by the food dispenser!"

D'Argo snorted. "I suppose Crichton repaired that too."

"Nah." Chiana shook her head. "It was Aeryn. Or so Pilot said."

There was a long pause as the atmosphere in the room subtly changed. D'Argo slowly raised his head, turning to stare at Chiana as his eyes darkened perceptibly. His features were a wash of conflicting emotions.

"Crichton and Aeryn," he repeated slowly. Chiana gazed at him, mystified by the sudden change of demeanour.

"Yeah," she stated. "So?"

D'Argo fixed his eyes upon her. "Doesn't it strike you as a coincidence that the two people worst afflicted by that whatever-it-was on Kaalene are suddenly the ones making bad repairs?"

The Nebari's eyes widened. "Sabotage?"

The Luxan shrugged. "Maybe. It would explain a lot."

"But why?" Chiana leaned forward intensely. "Aeryn and Crichton are our friends and they'd both sooner die than hurt Moya. Why would they want to do this to her?"

"Maybe they don't want to hurt her. Maybe they want to hurt us." D'Argo grimaced. 

"And for all we know that Wrardi saboteur on the moon could have once proclaimed that he'd sooner die than hurt Kaalene."

"You think something may be influencing them?" Rygel glided over, his expression intense.

D'Argo nodded. "Look at the evidence. An entire leviathan is brought down from within by one of the crew. Whilst investigating, both Crichton and Aeryn experience intense headaches and irrational rages. And now it is their repairs that are causing hurt to us. Think about it; who's been affected? Both of you, me and Pilot, that's who. I haven't heard either of _them_ complaining."

"They haven't got Zhaan," Chiana pointed out mildly. D'Argo shrugged. 

"Maybe they're biding their time. That's not the point. Moya's real troubles didn't start until a little after we came back on board; all Pilot had reported before that was a slight doziness. I think something on that planet has got into their heads. They may not even realise what they're doing."

Chiana's eyes were anxious. "What do we do?"

"Watch them." D'Argo glared. "Keep a close eye on them. Make sure they don't get the chance to sneak off alone and do damage."

"And how are we supposed to do that?" Rygel's tone was dismissive. "We can't follow them around every hour of every day. If nothing else, they'd get suspicious."

"_We_ can't." D'Argo smiled grimly. "But Pilot can. No one pays much attention to his DRDs." He paused, glancing down at his tattered clothing with rage glittering in his eyes. "At least, not as much as they should," he added darkly. "Frelling things."

"So we call Pilot." Chiana reached for her comm. D'Argo's hand moved like lightning; with a quick swipe, he knocked her hand away. The Nebari stared at him indignantly, wringing her bruised hand. 

"Hey!" she protested. "What was that for?"

"Not the comms!" D'Argo admonished sharply. "They've been affected and I haven't been able to fix them yet. For all we know, Aeryn and Crichton may be able to listen in. We can't let them know we suspect them." He rose, a hulking form of grim intent in rags. "We'll speak to him in person, together. Come on."

"Are you sure we can trust Pilot?" Rygel hovered forward, his expression anxious. 

"He's been acting strangely too! He shouted at me yesterday, over absolutely nothing!"

D'Argo waved a dismissive hand. "Of course we can trust Pilot. He didn't get anywhere near Kaalene and he'd never hurt Moya. He's just in bad mood because of what's happening. Now move, your eminence. We may not have much time."

With that, the Luxan turned and strode imperiously towards the door, a sticky Chiana trailing in his wake. Rygel hesitated a moment longer, still not overly pleased at the prospect of getting within Pilot's reach, especially when he was supposed to be protesting. But a sharp bellow from D'Argo stayed if not eradicated his concerns and reluctantly, the Hynerian tapped the control on his thronesled and hurried quickly after.

*********************** 

Aeryn sighed deeply as she paused for a microt, leaning wearily against the golden curve of the transport pod, her dark head slumping forward as she fought to suppress the last tattered remnants of the persistent headache that had plagued her since leaving Kaalene. Sleep and quietude had done nothing to disperse it and the potion suggested by Zhaan had done little more than dull it down to manageable levels. The Sebacean would have taken more time to rest and give nature a chance but Moya's slow spiralling breakdown and Pilot's anxiety for his beloved ship's well being had spurred her into action in spite of herself. At Pilot's request, she had spent the day traipsing from tier to tier sealing this, and tinkering with that until her travels had brought her to this deserted hanger to investigate a possible short circuit in the fuelling system for the transport pod. Since an initial visual investigation had turned up all of nothing, the peacekeeper had decided to initiate the fuelling system to fill up the most recently used pod and search for more noticeable flaws as it worked.

Unfortunately, it was at that moment that her weariness decided to catch up with her. Even as she struggled to clamp the fuel nozzle into place, exhaustion swamped her in a wash; it was all she could do to avoid collapsing to the ground beneath the fuel lines. For a brief, alarming instant, blackness swirled before her eyes, but determinedly she shook it off, forcing her rock heavy arms into action to complete the task that she had been assigned. Now was not the time to succumb to weakness. Pilot and Moya needed her help and she would not let them down.

But frell! She felt so bad!

The nozzle was in place. Aeryn blinked – she could barely remember installing it. Shaking her head to clear it, she roused herself and turned, biting back against the sudden surge of head pain that accompanied the motion as she braced herself for the long walk across the chamber to start the procedure. Why did it have to be so frelling far? What kind of stupid system was it anyway, all this striding back and forth just to top up a fuel tank that didn't desperately need to be topped? This was frelling ridiculous! She could be resting, recovering, sleeping in blissful release from the maelstrom of dizziness, pain and scattered emotion spinning around inside her cranium, battering her conscious and subconscious like a storm-lashed shore in winter gales. Why was she even doing this? She'd examined the system once and had found nothing wrong – why was that not good enough for Pilot? Why was she making herself go through this endurance test to find a flaw that no one but Pilot seemed to be able to see?

She should stop. She should stop right now, throw down her tool and call it a day on repairs. She'd been running up and down for arns, working with every ounce of consciousness and energy she could spare to help – wasn't it her turn to get something back? Hadn't she done enough? Why should she work herself to exhaustion whilst that lazy little runt Rygel sat on his fat backside in high dudgeon, stuffing his face? Where was the justice in that?

She wanted to kill him!

A sudden image of the Hynerian filled her sight – in the depths of her minds eye she saw her hand lash out, close like a vicious claw across the self-indulgent smirk and throttle with all it's might. She saw Rygel shake, saw him squeal for mercy – she saw herself squeeze harder. A slow smile spread across her face as she felt satisfaction fill her as her imaginary fingers dug deep into his throat and slowly ripped the life from him.

The vision lingered.

And it felt good.

Elation swelled within her – her headache seemed to pulse and flow, splitting into a strange circle that raced around the edge of her head like a dancing halo, forced aside by the sheer strength and alarming power of her sudden desire to kill. Ecstasy flooded her senses, her heavy body, a dull weight just a moment before, seemed to leave the ground with wings of fire.

She had never felt so free.

She had never felt so _alive_.

The pod was gone. Moya was gone. There was nothing, nothing but the feeling, nothing but the want, the rush, the sensation. It was her everything. It was her world.

And the feeling would be hers forever – if she made it come true.

It was the tiniest noise, the barest flicker on the edge of her consciousness, but it caught her senses like a blow. The grate. Someone was behind the grate.

And who else would be crawling in the ship's vents apart from Rygel?

She didn't think. She was no longer capable of it. Her actions were pure, emphatic instinct. Her fingers snapped around the handle of her pulse pistol; a single sweeping motion brought it into place. She pulled back on the trigger.

Red flame burned the air.

"Holy shit!" The screech tore through her mind like a wraith on fire. The dam that had subdued her reason faltered, the centrifugal force that had scattered her mind abruptly collapsing to let the dizziness, pain and confusion wash back. Her thoughts tangled and crashed in shadow. What?

She stopped firing – mindlessly she tucked her weapon away. She was grounded once more, heavy, exhausted, fighting to stay upright through the wash of weary pain. A pair of indignant eyes stared at her from his crouch in the maw of the vent, confused, wary and more than a little shocked. She tried to focus on his shape, his outline – it was familiar.

John.

"_Jesus_, Aeryn!" The maintenance bay echoed with the fear and astonishment in his voice. "Why the frell did you just try to fry me?"

Good question.

She had opened fire – why? Why had she fired? Rygel. A vague half-distant part of her brain surged briefly before being swallowed whole by the remainder of her mind. She thought he was Rygel. She'd wanted Rygel dead. Why? Aeryn struggled, her eyes fluttering. What had just happened? She'd been thinking about something, doing something. What? The fuel. She'd been about to test fuel when she'd started to black out. She couldn't remember clearly. She'd seen something moving, seen it as a threat – she'd opened fire. And it had been John.

Aeryn's mind seemed to clear – her memory surged back in a rush to mingle with the swath of pain. Yes, that was it. She'd been examining the pod and she'd half-blacked out. Confused and disorientated, she'd heard someone coming through the vent, assumed it was a threat and tried to defend herself. And all it had been was frelling John! What did he think he was doing sneaking around like that? She could have _killed _him!

"What the frell do you think you're _doing_?" she exclaimed furiously, striding forward to where the shocked human was hauling himself to his feet. "Crawling around in the grates! I thought you were a frelling intruder! Why didn't you use the door like any sane person would? I could have shot you, you idiot!"

John rubbed the back of his head as he covered the few steps to the tense, irate outline of the Sebacean. "I was trying to stay in one piece!" he drawled sharply. "Big mistake, obviously. What kind of trigger-happy lunatic are you? You ever think about checking who it is before you try to fricassee me?"

Aeryn felt a rush of guilt. He was right. She had very nearly snatched his life away from him on a strange, half-forgotten impulse. This was ridiculous. She wasn't well. The best thing she could do was get this maintenance check over as quickly as she could and find Zhaan. The Delvian would understand better what was the matter with her and could hopefully put a stop to it.

"I'm sorry," she apologised, her tone more subdued. "I was tired and you caught me by surprise. But it would never have happened if you had used a more conventional entrance. What were you doing in there?"

"Me?" Crichton shrugged, his expression wearily annoyed. "Oh nothing, much, just running for my life." He caught her puzzled look and grinned, although his features were tinged with annoyance. "Don't suppose you know who's supposed to have fixed the doors in the passage between here and tier six, do you?"

Aeryn fought through the mire of her memory and an image reluctantly surfaced. "D'Argo, I think," she muttered. "At least, I saw him working there earlier today. Why?"

John pulled a face. "Because I just ran the damn gauntlet to get through those doors alive. I _swear_ they were out to get me. I'd get to a door; it'd slam in my face. I'd press the control switch; it'd short circuit and shock me. Then the door would half open, I'd try to get though and it'd throw me back.  The damn thing was swinging like a demented windshield wiper – in the end, I had to dive and roll to get passed and then I only just made it. And then the next one did _exactly_ the same! All that passage needed was a giant boulder and dead guys coming out of the walls and it would have been straight out of Indiana Jones!" He sighed. "So in the end, I took to the Jeffries Tubes. Figured it would be safer." He grinned. "More fool me."

Aeryn grimaced as she moved passed him to the fuel release. "How many times do you want me to say I'm sorry?"

He smiled ingratiatingly. "Oh, I could listen to it _all_ day!"

She glared. "Don't push it." The lever released with a clunk – with a low rumble, the fuel system engaged. "I'm not in the mood."

She felt his eyes fix upon her in instant concern; irritably she ignored him, examining thepounding mechanism with intense, entirely feigned concentration. His warm hand slid softly onto her cool shoulder – angrily she shrugged out of his grip and started back across the bay towards the pod.

His voice followed her. "Baby, what's wrong? You're white as a sheet."

"I still have a headache, that's all." For a moment, a brief tantalising moment, she felt a deep and almost desperate urge to tell him about her strange black out, to share her concerns about her swirling head and get him to take her to Zhaan. But her irritation clamped down on the emotion with swift deftness and the desire was gone. It would pass. She needed rest. It was nobody's business but hers.

"You don't look so good." Aeryn almost laughed out loud, an emotion that whispered half of disdain and half of hysteria. She didn't _look_ good? If only he knew what was inside her mind! "Maybe you should rest."

"I intend to." Her tone was harsher than she'd intended – it was a battle not to snap angrily at his statement of the obvious. She fought to control her irrational anger, wondering in the tiny coherent corner that was left of her brain just what the frell was the matter with her. "When I've finished this."

"I can do that." He was at her side, a solicitous hand placed against her arms, his eyes filled with sincere concern for her well-being. "Pilot can fill me in. You go."

Again she shook him off. "I'm fine. I don't need your help."

"I disagree." There was an iron within his tone that brooked no opposition. "Give me the tool and get out of here." 

"No." Aeryn strode away from him to the open panel beside the slowly vibrating fuel tube. "I started this and I'll finish it. Now leave me alone."

"Dammit, Aeryn!" She could hear the quick staccato of his footsteps looming behind her – ignoring him deliberately, she turned away and bent close to her work, jamming her wrench into the machinery with a force that was more than excessive. Why couldn't he just frell off? She didn't need….

The shock was blinding. Every nerve in her body coursed with fire as she felt the power burst through her – for a microt she caught a glimpse of bright energy shimmering down her wrench and into her arm, her connection to the overload that had earthed violently through her body. She heard Crichton scream her name, heard herself scream in response and then suddenly she was flying, hurled backwards with bruising force as blackness reached dark feelers into her mind. She felt the jolt as she hit the deck, her body numb, her mind inflamed as she shook and shivered in a fit she was unable to control. She caught a glimpse of Crichton racing towards her fallen form, bellowing into his comm for Pilot as he skidded to her side, eyes wide and filled with terror. She tried to open her mouth, to tell him that she was all right, that it wasn't so bad, but colours swamped her vision, the vanguard of the dark invasion and he faded from her sight. All at once, blackness folded her in its grasp and swept her from his arms.

END OF PART THREE.


	4. Whispers and Lies

Breaking Point Part Four.

By Jess Pallas.

Disclaimer; I don't own Farscape or any of its characters. Please don't sue me!

Feedback; Go on then! E-mail me at jesspallas@hotmail.com

Archiving; If you like it, take it. But please, let me know first.

Rating:  PG although some bits are rather grim. Contains scenes of violence and fairly mild gore. Be warned.

Category; Drama, Action.

Spoilers; TWWW, DNAMS, TGAS, IET, CDM.

Timeframe; Midway through S2 probably after LATP. I can't be specific because I'm not sure myself!

Summary: The crew discover a dead leviathan whose Pilot and crew have been brutally murdered. But who was responsible – and could the same fate be about to befall Moya?

Copyright 21-04-2002.

It was the dull throb of pain throughout her body that made Aeryn realise that she was conscious once more. Determinedly she felt herself strain at the curtains of black that had enveloped her eyes; in the distance she could hear voices. She fought for some level of coherency and was surprised when her plea was answered – strangely enough, the jolt of the electric shock appeared to have cleared her mind. Slowly the blackness receded, the curtains drew back and through a haze of bright lights and colours, she saw the anxious face of John Crichton peering down at her. One cool hand was against her cheek, the other looped gently under shoulder – he was kneeling in a crouch at her side, his face turned away in profile as his voice filtered back to her ears.

"….much longer is she going to be? Dammit, Pilot!"

"Zhaan is on her way, commander." The patient note in Pilot's voice implied that they'd covered this ground before. "She will be with you as soon as she can."

"Well tell her to hurry the Hell up! Aeryn is seriously hurt here!"

"I am as concerned for Officer Sun's well being as you are," An edge of anxious irritation slipped into the navigator's tone. "But shouting at me will not bring Zhaan any faster!"

The look on John's face implied he was in no mood for excuses. Aeryn sighed internally, forcing back her stiff eyelids as struggled for her voice, hoping to put an end to the disagreement as quickly as possible.

"John," she gasped. It was little more than a whisper and Crichton missed it, still gazing with intent at the distant clamshell. Pulling a face, Aeryn tried again.

"John." Still, he failed to notice, wrapped up in his anger, his frustration, his desperate desire to be certain she was helped. Turning on Pilot was the only vent he had.

"Pilot, I don't give a rat's arse about…"

"John!" This time the Sebacean spoke with some force, pushing up hard onto her elbows in a bid to catch the human's attention. "I'm fine. Stop shouting at Pilot."

Crichton started as he swung to face her. "Aeryn!" His hands reached out anxiously to support her. "Baby, don't move, Zhaan's on her way. How do you feel?"

Aeryn paused, considering the question. Oddly enough, bearing in mind what had just befallen her, she was feeling surprisingly good. The jolt that had thrown her across the room appeared to have sliced though the muddle in her head – astonishingly, her headache had faded to almost nothing and she found herself coherent again. Her body throbbed deep to the bones and her skin was bruised and battered from her impact with the floor but these merely physical discomforts she could deal with; it had been her mind that had caused the problems. And that felt almost normal.

Working her arms with a grunt, Aeryn tried to sit up, but Crichton's quick hands pressed her back.

"No, you don't!" he ordered sharply. "Not until Zhaan's checked you over."

"Don't be ridiculous," Aeryn swatted his hands away. "I'm not hurt. Let me get up."

"You could still be in shock."

"I am not in shock. Let me up!"

"Aeryn!"

"Crichton!"

"Stop it the pair of you!" Zhaan's voice interrupted the disagreement emphatically. The robed Delvian swept to Aeryn's side, kneeling gently as she reached out soft hands to examine the Sebacean's injuries. "What happened?"

"Aeryn got shocked by the pod." Crichton came to his feet, one hand over his mouth. 

Aeryn suddenly realised he was as white as a sheet and his shoulders were shuddering. He seemed almost more shaken by the incident than she was. "Looked like an overload of some kind. It went right through her body then threw her across the room."

Zhaan's deep eyes fixed on Aeryn in concern. "How do you feel?"

The Sebacean sat up slowly. Zhaan did not try to hinder her – indeed she aided the manoeuvre. Crichton did not protest.

"Surprisingly good." Aeryn smiled weakly. "I ache a lot."

"It's only natural." Zhaan reached out, gently examining the sharp array of bruises across Aeryn's arm. "You've had quite an experience."

The Sebacean sighed ruefully. "One I could have done without."

"One you _should_ have done without!" Crichton was pacing the floor, his every step a study of sheer agitation. "Pilot, how the frell did this happen?"

"Unknown." The navigator's voice was a steady roll. "I will have to investigate further. But this is puzzling considering Chiana assured me she had thoroughly checked over this pod after returning from Kaalene. I will speak with her."

Abruptly his hologram shimmered and was gone. Aeryn pulled a face.

"Frelling Chiana," she muttered. "I should have known. She was probably so involved with whatever dren she was plotting in the maintenance bay she overlooked a fault with the pod."

Crichton's head jerked up. "Dren? What dren?"

Aeryn shrugged. "You tell me. I just know she was behaving very suspiciously when I saw her just after we got back from Kaalene. I was feeling so frelled I didn't pay much attention to her. But she was definitely up to something. She was unloading something from the pod – Rygel's she claimed – but I think she may have salvaged something from Kaalene. I would have asked her before but I didn't need the hassle." She shook her head as she rose to a crouch, coming to her feet with only minimal support from Zhaan. "I didn't think it mattered until now."

But Crichton was frowning. Aeryn knew that expression all too well – the expression that implied a suspicion was forming, an idea growing, trouble brewing. She exchanged a wary glance with Zhaan.

"What?" she inquired.

"I don't think this stuff is co-incidence." Crichton was gazing at the floor, tapping one finger thoughtfully against his chin. "I didn't like to say before because you would have thought I was nuts, but don't you reckon that half of these malfunctions are kinda personal?"

Zhaan frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, look at what's been happening! I just escaped from the tunnel of Hell after being assaulted by the doors. Pilot gets drenched in crap. And now Aeryn gets electrocuted. Doesn't this all strike you as rather vindictive?"

The Sebacean and the Delvian stared. "You think someone is doing this on purpose." Aeryn stated.

Crichton met their gaze. "Don't say you haven't thought it. I didn't like to say because who the frell around here would do this stuff to Moya? But what you just said made me think. Those glowing rocks – maybe they were responsible. Maybe they screw with people's minds. Maybe they've screwed with some of us."

"You suspect D'Argo." Aeryn's eyes narrowed.

John nodded. "And Chiana too. If she did sneak on board to snurch herself a bargain, the disco rocks may have melted her brain as well as the big guy's. Maybe they don't even know they're doing it."

"There are a great many maybes in this, John," Zhaan pointed out sceptically. "Do you really believe Chiana and D'Argo may be responsible for Moya's difficulties?"

"I think someone is." John sighed. "I don't like thinking like this Blue. It's all too Traltixx, too hippy-trippy light for me. But I can't ignore the fact that everything they fix turns on us. The doors. Fixed by D'Argo. The pod. Fixed by Chiana."

Aeryn frowned. "That's only two. Two can be coincidence."

But Zhaan was gazing at the golden ceiling. "Who repaired the comm system?" she asked softly, a hint of fear in her voice.

John regarded her slowly. "D'Argo. Why?"

The Delvian sighed, her delicate blue features creasing. "Because I have been suffering from a bad headache ever since we entered orbit of Kaalene's moon. I have been attempting to mediate it away for several arns now but every time I grew close to reaching the plane, I was interrupted by…noises from the comm system. Beeps. Chirps. Buzzes. All sorts of sounds that seemed almost timed to shake me the most. I was starting to wonder if Chiana or Rygel were playing a bad joke."

Crichton smiled, but there was no joy or satisfaction in his expression, only grim confirmation of his fears. "And that makes three. We need to talk to Pilot, get a tail on those guys before they do any more damage. We can't let this go on."

"Don't use your comm." Aeryn's face was a grim mask. "If D'Argo has been at the system he could overhear our suspicions. We have to go in person."

And we go together." Zhaan was pale, her voice uncertain but her eyes were resolved. "I am still not convinced by this John. But by speaking with Pilot we can at least find resolution to this matter."

John nodded and moved towards the door. "Then we go. If nothing else, we may at least be able to save D'Argo and Chiana from themselves."

*************************

  Zhaan sighed. 

It had seemed like such a good idea – talk to Pilot, persuade him to watch over their possibly wayward friends, to monitor and protect them for their own sakes as much as for Moya's. No confrontations, no nasty recriminations as they had suffered after the influence of Traltixx's light, just calm, logical reason to prove or disprove a creeping, potentially destructive suspicion once and for all. Yes, an excellent idea.

But how were they to know that the ones the suspected had chosen exactly the same path?

"You _dare_ to blame _me_?" D'Argo drew himself up, a hulking giant in tattered rags, one hand itching for his absent Qualta Blade as he towered over the comparatively diminutive form of the human John Crichton. "Look at me! Do you think I would do this to myself? No, Crichton, this is your doing, you and the peacekeeper and you seek to cover your tracks by shifting suspicion to me and Chiana!"

"What the hell have you been smoking???" John stood braced in the centre of the walkway, his head tilted back to glare into the angry face of the enormous but battered Luxan. "You think Aeryn almost killed herself to shift the blame to you? She could have _died_, you moron!"

D'Argo's lofty gaze shifted to the pale form of Aeryn Sun, who watched the confrontation from a few steps behind, her hard eyes never flinching from an intense study of the mucky outline of Chiana, lounging in the entrance to the den with Rygel. She was taking no chances on a sudden attack. The Nebari returned the gaze with an icy jet stare that implied she would not endure this examination for much longer without retaliating.

"We have only your word for that." The Luxan sneered down his nose at the human. 

"And she seems to have recovered remarkably quickly from this life-threatening shock!"

"Are you calling me a liar?" John braced his shoulders indignantly.

"Yes, I am." D'Argo ignored his shipmate's apparent bravado with disdain. "You've been a liability for long enough already, but in sabotaging Moya you have crossed the line. I will _not_ let you hurt her!"

John strode a quick step closer, drawing himself up as much as he was able as he stared into the Luxan's eyes. "I'd never harm Moya. And I won't let _you _cause her pain!"

Zhaan sighed again, trying to ignore the pulse of her aching head as she attempted to focus her thoughts. This was pointless. It had become obvious to her almost as soon as she had seen the state of the Luxan and the Nebari girl that Crichton's assumptions had been flawed. The saboteur, if there _was_ a saboteur, was not one of their number. Contrary to Crichton's belief, they had all suffered abuse in some form or another and it had all been personal. So unless all those who had ventured aboard Kaalene were being mysteriously influenced, it seemed obvious to Zhaan that the attacker was not one of the crew.

The Delvian glanced at Pilot. The navigator was enduring this ill-tempered invasion of his chamber with scarcely concealed irritation, struggling to concentrate on the desperately important business of repairs whilst his repair crew fractured into factions before his eyes. What he could see, what Zhaan could see, but that the others clearly could not, was that the massed dispute on the walkway simply didn't matter. What was important here was Moya, her health, her restoration, and the crew, consumed in their own petty struggles, seemed to have forgotten that.

It was time to intervene. Drawing herself up, she started forwards.

"You have the nerve to accuse me…."

" Have you seen the size of this ship? I'd have to have a thousand mile long arms to do all the stuff you're pushing on me…"

"What the frell is your problem, Aeryn? Did that shock fry your brain or is it just the way you are?"

"I'm just making sure that no little trelk catches me by surprise..."

"This is ridiculous. This is a waste of time and I'm hungry!"

"Please stop this, all of you. It isn't helping."

"I'm not the one who made happy with the disco rocks!"

"But you are the one who had the frelling fit!"

"What's the matter? Don't think you can take me on without your peacekeeper toys?"

"I could take a pathetic Nebari like you anytime…."

"Yotz to the lot of you!"

"Calm down! This is wrong!"

"Human dren!"

"Tentacled freak-show!"

"Thieving trelk!"

"Peacekeeper skank!"

"Silence!"

The hush was abrupt. The protestations of the four combatants died on their lips as they turned to face the suddenly regal azure form of the angry Delvian priestess. 

"This is ridiculous!" Zhaan's features were stern, her gaze unforgiving as she swept her eyes across the suddenly chastened forms of her shipmates. "Look at yourselves! Why are you so quick to blame each other? After all we have been through together, you still turn upon each other like ravenous beasts at the first opportunity. Has the past cycle and a half taught you nothing?"

There was a shamed silence. Both D'Argo and Crichton seemed on the verge of retorting in their own defence but a frosty glare from Zhaan was enough to clamp both mouths shut.

"We need to work together, not fracture." Zhaan's tone softened slightly. "Moya needs our help now and we waste time she may not have by arguing over blame that does not exist."

"I was trying to protect her." This time Crichton did speak up. "I thought it was them and I was trying to help everyone. That's all."

Zhaan actually managed a smile. "I know that John. I know you all came to this chamber with the best of intentions. But those intentions have been lost. We need to recover them, to work together to find the real cause of Moya's problems."

"Zhaan's right." Aeryn's voice was strong. "It's Moya that matters."

"Agreed." John sighed. "I'm getting shades of Traltixx here and it isn't pretty. I don't want to go down that road again." Abruptly he offered a broad palm to D'Argo. "What do you say, D? Truce?"

D'Argo's eyes were cold. "Do you still blame me?"

Crichton smiled crookedly. "Do you still blame _me_?"

The Luxan frowned. "A little."

"And I still blame you – a little." John grinned. "But I think I can work around it."

A reluctant smile twitched in the corner of D'Argo's mouth. Abruptly he slapped his palm against John's.

Zhaan smiled in relief.

"Pilot," Crichton turned on the hulking form of Moya's navigator who continued to regard him with undisguised suspicion. "Any ideas?"

Pilot didn't answer. His frown deepened and he turned his attention back to his console. 

John and Zhaan exchanged a confused look. "Umm….. Ground control to Pilot, come in Pilot!" John shook his fingers into Pilot's line of sight. "Are you receiving me, over?"

Pilot's eyes rose in a slow roll. "Go away," he drawled abruptly, an undisguised threat overlying his tone. "All of you."

"Oookay." John drew the word out curiously as he glanced at his companions – they all looked as nonplussed as he. "Pilot, did you forget to take your happy pills this morning? Cos' we're here to help and you're snapping at us."

Pilot's expression darkened further. "I am in no mood to humour your flippant remarks, Commander. And if you wish to help, return to your repairs. You can do nothing here but distract me."

"I think we can," John leaned forwards, folding his arms across the console. "Because if we can get to the root of this problem, instead chasing around after its tail, maybe we can kill the sucker completely!"

Pilot sniffed. "I don't have time for this."

"_Make_ time!" John fought back the resurgence of his anger at the navigator's unbending attitude. "What is _with_ you, don't you want Moya to get better?"

He knew at once that he had stepped over the line. Pilot's eyes snapped up, his features contorted with icy fury.

"How _dare_ you?" he hissed. "How dare you come in here and preach to me about what is best for Moya! I am her Pilot, her guardian! I am not the one at fault here! I am working with all my strength to restore Moya form the damage all of _you_ are causing and now…."

"What the…?"

"What did you say?"

"Us? You think…"

"Pilot, I would never…"

The cacophony of protests rose and filled the chamber in a tumultuous surge as every member of Moya's crew started forwards towards her navigator. Pilot growled quietly and turned aside.

"Guys!" Crichton interceded firmly. "Cool it!" He turned back to Pilot, his eyes wide and curious. "Back up. So you _do_ think it's one of us."

"Or more than one. Possibly all." Pilot refused to turn. "But someone is causing this. 

The pattern of damage is regular, consistent and impossible to achieve under natural circumstances. I have attempted to trace your routes, trying to find a culprit, but I have neither the time nor resources to spare to analyse my findings. So I must suspect you all."

"Why do you assume it was us?" D'Argo moved forwards, his rangy limbs reacting with surprising grace beneath their tattered coverings.

Pilot cast them a sideways glance filled with disdain. "Because there is no one else on board."

Aeryn came to D'Argo's side. "How can you be so sure? Intruders have evaded your senses before now."

Pilot's expression grew indignant. "Are you calling me incompetent, Officer Sun?"

"Of course not," Aeryn kept her cool with surprising ease. "I was stating a fact."

"Aeryn's right, Pilot." John stepped in quickly. "We've had critters galore running amok on the streets with you none the wiser. Why are you so sure now?"

Suddenly Pilot seemed a little less certain of himself. "When I first realised what was happening and noticed the deliberate pattern, I took the time to run a full scan of Moya's interior. I found no-one but the six of you."

"The energy being," Aeryn's voice was low but her tone was firm. "Pilot's sensors didn't detect it aboard Kaalene. If it somehow reached Moya, could we tell it was here?"

Pilot was shaking his head. "My sensors were blocked by the ambient radiation from the planet, not the being itself. We are out of range of the radiation field. It would have nowhere to hide."

"Yeah, but you didn't see the thing!" Abruptly, Crichton was pacing, tapping his thumb against his chin as his eyes sunk deep in thought. "It wasn't just hiding in the radiation, it _was_ radiation. What if it's made up of the same stuff that blinded your scans of the planet? It would be invisible to your sensors all the time!"

There was a heavy silence. A flurry of looks was exchanged, combining dawning realisation and sudden nervousness. Eyes darted uncertainly towards the darkened corners of Pilot's chamber.

"How could it have got on board?" Chiana's voice was barely more than a whisper. "I thought you blew it up!"

"Maybe we did, maybe we didn't." D'Argo knit his brows together angrily. "Maybe another one stowed away on the pod. However it got here, I think we can safely assume that we've found our saboteur – and probably Kaalene's too."

Aeryn frowned. "But the crew…."

"Mutinied." D'Argo sighed. "They did acted as we almost did  – factioned off and killed each other whilst our glowing friend sat back and laughed. Maybe it killed Kaalene or maybe the crew went insane and did it themselves. We'll probably never know."

"But the message," Zhaan stepped forward curiously. "It sounded as though the assailant was someone they knew – someone they cared about."

"Perhaps the creature was their pet. Perhaps it could lead them to those glowing rocks. A servant that turned."

"Or a slave." Zhaan was nodding. "I suppose it's possible."

Aeryn alone read the look on Crichton's face. Quietly she stepped to his side.

"You don't look convinced," she stated softly.

John glanced at the peacekeeper. "I'm not," he replied in a tone equally hushed. "The whole mutiny thing just doesn't work for me." He sighed. "I think… I can't help but wonder….No, never mind." He waved a dismissive hand but Aeryn was not to be put off.

"What?" she whispered firmly.

John bore the gaze of her ice-blue eyes with uncertainty. "I'm not sure. I've got a niggle – a suspicion," he added on seeing her expression. "It's probably nothing but until I'm sure, I'm keeping quiet. We can do without more allegations."

"You won't even tell me?" There was a hint of annoyance in the Sebacean's tone.

John smiled wanly. "Baby, when I tell, I tell everyone together. No more secrets."

Nearby Zhaan was speaking soothingly to Moya's navigator. 

"Is this why you've been so uptight with us, Pilot?" she said gently. "Because you believed we were responsible for harming Moya?"

Pilot sighed. "You can see why I thought that. She's been acting so strangely since we left that planet – absent, distant, barely speaking to me, leaving me to fight a losing battle on my own. She isn't even frightened, just…indifferent. And it wouldn't have been the first time you had caused her to behave in such a way…."

"Let's not go there, huh?" John intervened. "Unless Moya's been seeing some leviathan stud on the side, I doubt it'll be the same cause." He paused, gazing down with studied nonchalance at Pilot's controls.

"Uh, Pilot," he said casually. "You still got that recording we picked on Kaalene?"

Pilot shrugged. "Of course. For all the use it is. Why?"

"Can I borrow it?"

A flicker of suspicion crossed Pilot's features. "What for?"

"Well, you know," John shrugged. "I hate unsolved mysteries and that tape's still the only clue we've got about what happened on Kaalene. I thought maybe I could have a go at clearing it up, seeing what else we could learn about the energy being and Kaalene's crew…" His voice tailed off. Pilot's expression had darkened, his large body abruptly tense. Something unpleasant flickered beneath his golden eyes.

"I _told_ you," he stated firmly. "The tape was damaged. I examined it thoroughly but could learn nothing more."

John's façade of enforced casualness was slipping. "Yeah, I know," he said, trying to avoid any tone that would antagonise the already tense navigator further. "I just thought maybe I could take a look too."

The rest of the crew was watching with sudden interest. Aeryn's expression implied that she had caught onto the subtle undertone that Crichton was trying to conceal – how important it was for him to see the recording. A quick glance at Chiana told her the Nebari had seen the same thing. The two women exchanged a quick gaze and moved forward to join the human.

"For what purpose?" Pilot's tone was incredulous. "I gave the recording a thorough examination and found nothing. Why do you assume that you would have more success than I have?"

"You were busy with Moya when you looked," John offered. "Maybe you missed something."

The moment the words left his lips, John knew he'd made a serious mistake. Pilot's expression flared.

"_Missed something_?" he exclaimed furiously, rearing up behind his controls as he turned to face the human. Chiana, her eyes wide, darted to the rear of the console, away from Pilot's angry gaze. D'Argo, Zhaan and Rygel were already close to the door.

"Do you all think I am so incompetent?" Pilot roared furiously. "First Officer Sun and now you! Does no one on this ship trust me? After all I have done, all the work and effort I have given without thought of reward…"

"Pilot," Aeryn tried to step in, her hands raised in an attempt to placate but Pilot was not to be calmed. 

"No, say nothing!" he bellowed. "Just get out, all of you! I have work to do and so do you!"

"But Pilot…"

"OUT!!!!"

The door swung open with some force, almost knocking Rygel from his thronesled. For a moment his terrified head hung over the vast chasm that formed the lower half of Pilot's chamber, but Zhaan's quick action hauled him back to safety and out of the door.

Pilot was steaming with rage. Crichton looked as though he might attempt to say something more, but Aeryn, sensing the futility of his efforts, took him by the arm and hauled him across the walkway. A moment later, Chiana rushed to join them. Inexplicably, she looked pleased with herself.

Crichton's heels had barely passed the threshold when the door slammed shut behind them. There was a long pause.

"What the yotz was that all about?" Rygel broke the silence at last, still rubbing the sore patch left on his ear-brow by the impact of the door. 

"Yeah, who spiked his fellip nectar?" Chiana leaned back against the door. She was still wearing an inappropriately smug expression. "Whatever happened to nice, quiet, dull, does-as-he's-told Pilot anyway?"

Aeryn sighed. "This could be my fault," she said wearily. "I suggested to Pilot a few days ago that he could afford to be more… forceful. I didn't think it was a good idea for him to let himself be walked over. But I never thought he'd take my advice to heart so quickly."

"Oh great," Crichton placed his hands on his hips. "You couldn't have chosen a better time to send him to assertiveness training classes? How to Be a Pain-in-the-Arse, in one quick easy lesson from the legendary Aeryn Sun." 

"Wait a microt…" Aeryn's demeanour was poised on the verge of violence but luckily Zhaan intervened.

"This is not Aeryn's fault," the Delvian declared. "Both Pilot and Moya were traumatised by the discovery of Kaalene and now with all that is happening here, of course he will be on edge." She sighed. "Perhaps I should talk to him about it…"

"I'd rather do it," Aeryn interrupted. "If this is because of what I said, perhaps I can talk him round. And if it isn't – I may be able to make him tell me anyway." Then she frowned, her features crinkling. "But I still don't understand why he was so adamant not to let Crichton see that tape."

"Yeah, and why did you want it so badly anyway, old man?" Chiana slouched lazily against an upright, twitching something small and dark in her fingers. "If Pilot says it's useless…."

"You think he's lying." D'Argo made it a statement of fact. 

"I think he's mistaken." John corrected the Luxan firmly. "I've been going over and over this in my head and some pieces are starting to fit together that I'd sooner keep apart. I'm not sure the energy being is the whole story – if it's even in the ballpark."

Zhaan frowned, her azure brow creasing. "What do you mean?"

John shook his head. "I don't wanna say it – not without proof. We've had enough blame flying about for one day. Besides it's kind of irrelevant now anyway since the only way I had to prove myself wrong was on that tape."

"Maybe. Maybe not." Chiana's smug little smile spread into a full-grown smirk. From within one gloved palm she produced the recording.

John snatched it from her fingers at once. "How the Hell did you get this?"

The Nebari grinned, basking in the glow of their admiring disbelief. "I snurched it whilst Pilot was letting rip. He was so mad at you he never even noticed. It seemed important to you."

John leaned forward and kissed her quickly on the cheek. "Pip, you're a genius. I owe you one."

Chiana stood up straight and returned the gesture with a sultry smile. "More than one," she drawled. "And I'll hold you to that."

Noting D'Argo's glare, John immediately backed off. With a pout, Chiana returned to her position against the wall.

"So now will you tell us what this is all about?" Aeryn exclaimed but John was already shaking his head. "Not until I've looked this over. I really don't want to be right about this and I'm not even going to suggest it until I'm sure there's something in it." He paused, twiddling the recording between finger and thumb. "Tell you what. You guys go back to work, keep Pilot the happy little dictator for a while. I'm going to the maintenance bay. You guys meet me there in three arns and don't tell Pilot." He sighed deeply. "Hopefully I won't have any more to say than I was wrong."

****************************************

"Well, Crichton? Are you going to explain this now?"

The requisite three arns had passed with astonishing swiftness – the crew, on brief leave from their duties had gathered in the maintenance bay, as requested, to find the grim and sombre form of John Crichton gazing in deep resignation at the small dark chip Chiana had stolen on his behalf. He did not even seem to have seen them arrive – it was only with D'Argo's terse statement that he glanced up, spying his company, it seemed, for the first time. With a sigh, he rose from his contemplation and placed the tape gently into the play-slot of a nearby holo-imager before turning to face his friends. The look on his face was alarming.

"What's wrong?" Aeryn responded first with the words hovering on all of their lips. "What have you found?"

John waved her question to silence with a flick of his hand – with a distinctly forced casualness his eyes scanned the room, walls, floor, ceiling and clamshell before returning to the fore. He opened his lips and mouthed a one-word question.

_Pilot?_

Aeryn's expression was one of confusion but she quickly answered his query.

"He's busy, John. A neural conduit shorted out on tier sixteen – he has devoted most of his conscious attention to repairing it and shouldn't be done for several arns. I doubt he'd have time to eavesdrop on us."

John looked relieved. "Good. Because I don't want him to hear this – at least not for now." He glanced from one face to the other, his shipmates, his friends and wondered how in God's name he was going to break this to them. He could hardly take it in himself.

He decided to plunge straight in. "I've restored some of the tape. It was actually pretty easy, once I got to grips with the holo-imager. And it's not just sound – there's a visual. It's still pretty broken up and there are some decent chunks of it still missing but there's enough to get a better idea of what the Hell was going on back on Kaalene. And from what I can tell – I was right." He breathed a deep sigh. "God, I was hoping I wouldn't be saying that."

"So, what happened?" Chiana's features were a cocktail of impatience and fear. 

"What's going on? Frell it Crichton, we need to know!"

But Crichton shook his head. "No telling. It was only three arns ago that we were threatening to nuke each other – and besides, I want an unbiased second opinion. I'll play it and you just watch. See if you reach the same conclusions as me."

Quietly he reached back and pushed the tape down into the play position. At once, a flickering image rose, a grainy, shadowed, half-hidden image of a pale faced, black-bearded Wrardi man crouched amidst a concealing pile of crates in a golden corridor identical to Moya's. He was breathing hard, sweat pouring down his brown tan skin, his scarlet robe a tattered, ripped up mess that closely resembled D'Argo's clothing a couple of arns before. His face was gaunt and scratched. His eyes, deep and haunted, were filled with desperate terror. Around him, the lights were dull and pulsing.

"I know him," Aeryn's voice cut through the hushed silence like a knife, her tone astonished. "He's the man I found in the neural nexus – the saboteur!"

John nodded. "I thought he might be. Just keep watching. It makes a lot of things a whole lot clearer."

 The Wrardi did not seem to have realised his device was functioning – between static bursts of silver interference, they caught glimpses of him yanking at the DRD transmitter with an almost frantic frenzy.

"Work, curse you!" they heard him mutter before vanishing behind a curtain of broken silver. When he reappeared, it seemed that he had finally realised he'd succeeded – he sat back on his knees, his eyes wide but relieved as he tried to catch his breath. Through fizzing bursts of incomprehensible sound and colour, he began to speak.

"This is Captain Jarit Brax of ….viathan Kaalene, in orb…. mining moon at Dar'scay-lat. I'm calling on a freq….. acked DRD … can no longer …. our comms. I beg you… can hear me, help….nder attack from ou…. don't know why he turned on us… no reason for it, he just went crazy and started killing us one b….he's gone insane, he's trying to kill us all…. no way to escape ….cks us at every turn, captures us, tortures us an….. DRDs, environmentals, even the frelling door… all a threat….. How… fight back when yo…ry ship…. against you? Please help us - we're trapped in…. have to fight bac… can't hide any …. to forget friendships…. be as ruthless as he's becom….. decided to cripple Kaa... hate myself…. a home and a friend for six cyc….. don't  ha…. choice…. close enough to disconnec…. power is… sever that link one way or ano…. crew are going to distract hi….. ssault on… take out Kaalene's neural nex….. this in the hope that, even if we all die, someone may find this message an….. no part in this …. Pilot. It's a vague ho…. nly hope we have. I say again, if you can hear …Kaale….ave to go now. I can't risk thi…..ing detected. DRD, transmit message."

Abruptly the image terminated. 

There was a long silence.

"Frell," Chiana muttered softly.

John sighed. "My sentiments exactly."

"So," Even D'Argo sounded hushed. "The energy being took over the ship somehow and used it against the crew. The Wrardi captain decided the only way to stop him was to bring down the ship. But the being survived and somehow got on board Moya to start all over again." He growled. "We should have just kept our distance."

But John was shaking his head. "I'm not so sure, big guy. We've all been so blinded by the energy being and each other, we haven't even considered there could be another culprit – one a little closer to home." He leaned back against the bench with a resigned expression. "One thing about that recording has bugged me from the start – the way it always sounded as though the attacker was someone they knew and trusted. Yeah, I know." He raised his hands as D'Argo opened his mouth to protest. "The energy being could have been working for them. But I don't buy that. Guys, think. Think about what's happening to Moya and what Brax is describing on Kaalene. Doesn't all this seem a little familiar? Like when Moya was pregnant?" He took a deep breath. "Like when she tried to kill us?"

Five sets of eyes fixed on him in disbelief.

"You think it was their ship?" Zhaan's expression was a mixture of incredulousness and horror.

John met her eyes grimly. "And now our ship. I think Moya is sabotaging herself." He read their expressions and raised his hands. "Think about it. Brax refers to his attacker as he and we know Kaalene was male. And he was the captain – why would he kill a ship he obviously cared about to get someone else? It strikes me that this was his last resort – the only way to save his crew. He sent his crew to distract Kaalene whilst he made a run at the nexus and succeeded – only to be gunned down by avenging DRDs. And you heard what Pilot said earlier about Moya's mood – you'd think she'd be a bit scared with all these systems malfunctions going on. But she's not. She's _indifferent_. And maybe she's indifferent because she knows nothing's wrong – because she's causing the damage personally."

Rygel thrust forward on his thronesled, his small green face intense. "But if it is Moya, why hasn't Pilot done something about it? Why the yotz hasn't he warned us instead of sending us scrambling around making repairs?"

"Sending _some_ of us scrambling around." Chiana corrected dryly. "But Ryge has a point."

John gazed thoughtfully at the clamshell. "Pilot is the great unknown in all this," he stated softly. "Because we don't know which way he's likely to jump – metaphorically speaking," he added wryly. "He's told us often enough that Moya is his priority – it's her first and us second as far as he's concerned. But I also like to think he's got enough common sense beneath that monster of a carapace to see that if Moya's trying to kill us, there might be something wrong." He closed his eyes. "We know Moya can keep secrets from him –little things like pregnancy for example – and for all we know he may know less about this than we do. But he has been in one Hell of a weird mood lately – I don't know. He is hooked into Moya's emotions – maybe all that animosity he's been giving us is channelled through from her, consciously or not. We know so little about the way their relationship works – can Moya take him over, can he take over her? If it's door number one, we definitely don't want to let him know what we think. But if it's door number two, he's our best shot at sorting this out." 

Zhaan was watching him anxiously. "What about the tape?" she murmured reluctantly as though loathe to bring it up. "I mean no insult to you, John, but if you can restore so much in three arns, it should have given Pilot no difficulty at all. Why did he tell you it was useless?"

John tapped his finger against his chin. "Good point. But it still might not mean he was deliberately lying – remember he was trying to unscramble it using his console. I used a PK imager. Do you really think Moya would let Pilot use her own systems to incriminate herself?"

"The Pilot on Kaalene," Aeryn's voice was flat and emotionless but feeling flickered behind her ice blue eyes. "He was trying to stop the sabotage."

"He was also trying to save his own life," John pointed out. "If Kaalene went boom, so did he remember? And he may have found it hard to take the idea that his ship was a cold-blooded killer. Maybe he was in on it or maybe he was just too scared to let go. I guess we'll never know."

"Whichever it was," said D'Argo softly. "It seems the crew killed him for it."

 John came to his feet, aware that five pairs of eyes were following him as his paced the floor. "Let's hope that's not a choice we have to make," he said sincerely. "We need to know if we can trust Pilot. The question is; how do we find out without giving ourselves away? Telling Pilot is telling Moya, whether he likes it or not. As soon as we let him in, she reads his thoughts and the game's up."

"We should not share our suspicions with him," Zhaan's voice was low and sad. "Not yet. But the question is – if Moya is trying to harm us, how can we stop her without killing both her and ourselves?"

"By finding the source." John met Zhaan's eyes, his own gaze weary. "I don't like this any more than you do, Blue. But unless we figure out what's causing Moya to go kooky, we may end up joining Kaalene as a relict on some lost moon awaiting the next poor saps to stumble across our scattered remains. I'm going to keep going over the recording – there are still some big chunks missing and anything we can learn about what happened to Kaalene may be helpful. Meanwhile we need to start looking around for any possible causes – a virus in her systems, radiation poisoning, anything. We need to search the pods, check our space suits, run some systems scans, try and spot anything that could be responsible. But we have to keep our heads down. We can't let Moya and Pilot get suspicious. The only reason I reckon we're still alive right now is because Moya doesn't realise she's been sprung – she and Pilot still think we're blaming the energy being. Do your jobs, act normal and tell Pilot nothing. We can't afford to blow this. All our lives may depend on the next couple of arns."

"Officer Sun!"

Six beings jumped as one as Pilot's voice echoed curtly from within Aeryn's comm. The peacekeeper glanced anxious at her companions before tapping her golden badge gently.

"Yes Pilot?"

"Please come to my chamber immediately," Pilot's voice was clipped but it contained no evidence that he had overheard their conversation. "I require your assistance with a repair task."

Aeryn glanced up at John – he nodded at once. With an admirably level tone, the Sebacean responded.

"Certainly Pilot. I'll be with you in a few hundred microts."

"Thank you, Officer Sun." With a click, the comm fell silent.

Aeryn glanced at Crichton. "Is this a good idea?" she asked tersely.

"Saying no would have been suspicious," John pointed out at once. "Besides this will be a good chance for you to sound him out – see if you can tell which side he may be on if it came to the crunch. You know him best. You may be able to tell if he's lying."

Aeryn nodded grimly. "I suppose you're right."

"So now what?" asked Chiana.

"We do like I said." Crichton replied. "Act normal and check things out. We have a lot to learn and not much time. Best get to it."

With an exchange of looks, the crew dispersed. John watched them go, heavy-hearted, knowing that his fear and dejection at this revelation was reflected within them. It was an inconceivable thought – Moya turning against them and maybe Pilot too – and worse. 

For how were they to stop them except by following the example of Jarit Brax?

With a sigh, John turned back to the recording. Maybe he would find something useful behind those silver walls of static.

"Come on, Brax, help me out," he murmured softly. Picking up a tool, he chose a static filled image and set to work.

He did not see the two glowing lights that stared at him from behind a nearby crate.

With a single twitch, the DRD turned quietly and trundled on its way.

***********************************

It seemed so much darker than usual.

Aeryn paused, perturbed, a slender silhouette in the entrance to Pilot's chamber as she gazed in uncomfortable surprise at the wealth of dancing shadows and hidden curves of black that over-laid the backdrop of a room she had always felt more than safe in. In the course of her journey towards this blackened room, her headache had resurged with irritating persistence and the peacekeeper had found herself struggling to maintain her self-control as the backs of her eyeballs pounded against her skull like rhythmic hammers and little flashes of light teased at the corners of her eyes. John had asked her to assess the most likely direction of their navigator's loyalties, but in her current state, she hardly felt able to assess her own. A pervasive weariness crept through her bones – she wanted nothing more than to go back the way she had come and lie down for the rest of eternity. But unfortunately, she had a job to do.

Her eyes shifted at once to the dark, bulky outline of Moya's Pilot, shrouded in the shades of his console, his fire-bright eyes not even rising from the strobing lights of his panels to acknowledge her presence. If he had not spoken, Aeryn would not even have been convinced that he knew she was there.

"You are here. Good." His tone was clipped and business-like; not unfriendly exactly, but hardly infused with a surfeit of warmth. "Please proceed to the neural cluster immediately. Several of the linkages appear to have shorted out and my DRDs in that sector are not responding. I would appreciate it if you could examine the situation and report it back to me."

Aeryn stared, trying to ignore the incessant pounding of her mind. "That's it?" she exclaimed, reining in her irritability only with the greatest of efforts. She could have been lying down! "You called me all the way up here to pass instructions you could have given me over the comms?"

Pilot's frame seemed to freeze – slowly, he raised his vast head, fixing her with a powerful amber stare. "I was trying to be more personal," he drawled softly. "I'm sorry if you find that so offensive."

Personal? Aeryn sighed, fighting her pain as she attempted to think logically. She couldn't help but feel that the terse manner the navigator had adopted was hardly in keeping with his claim, but she wisely refrained from commenting on it for she did not have the energy to argue. Perhaps she was reading this all wrong – perhaps Zhaan would have indeed proved a better person for this task. But of one thing she was certain; the Pilot she had know a few solar days before would never have spoken to her in such a manner. Was it simply stress as Zhaan believed or was there truly something more sinister behind his behaviour? 

It was time to find out.

Before her head exploded.

Softly, Aeryn stepped into the embracing darkness of the chamber, allowing the door to swing softly to a close behind her. In a few quick strides she crossed the walkway, coming to a halt a few steps short of the console. Pilot watched her come in silent contemplation, the blue and scarlet gyrations of his controls playing across his face like a mask.

"Yes?" he said, his voice a whispered hiss.

Aeryn ignored it, opting for the blunt approach in her pounded state, even though she knew full well that John would have had fits had he been there. "All right Pilot, what's going on?" she exclaimed abruptly. "Ever since we left orbit of Kaalene's moon, you've been cold, dismissive and downright rude to us! What's the matter with you?"

Pilot cocked his head. There was a vaguely unsettling glimmer behind his eyes. "You told me to be more assertive, Officer Sun," he drawled smoothly. "I was just taking _your_ advice."

"There's assertive and there's obnoxious." Aeryn drew herself up, ignoring the resultant throb in her left eyeball. "You've crossed the line and we don't appreciate it."

Pilot's expression tightened. "Oh, well, I'm sorry," he said, his voice rich with vast lashings of sarcasm. "I'll try to be a better _servant_ from now on."

Aeryn tensed. "That isn't what I meant."

"Isn't it?" Pilot retorted at once, drawing himself up. "Do you want to know why I called you down here, Officer Sun? Why I made this request in person rather than over the comms?" There was anger written across his features but also a vague disappointment. "Because I foolishly believed that of all of the people on this ship, _you_ were the one I could still trust!"

A vast silence echoed through the distant corners of the chamber as Aeryn stared wordlessly at the furious, cold-eyed alien drawn up before her. The pulsing of her head ebbed to a dull roar.

"I do not believe there is an energy being," Pilot's voice was a sibilant hiss. "I do not believe there is an intruder that I cannot detect. I still believe that Moya's saboteur can be found amongst this crew and as such, I do not wish to have any dangerous hands allowed access to Moya's primary functions. But when the neural cluster failed and my DRDs malfunctioned, I knew that I had little choice but to chose someone to trust." He glared. "It seems I chose badly."

Aeryn felt a guilty coldness well inside her chest, a rogue counterpoint to the heat swelling in her skull. Frelling Crichton! She had allowed _his_ suspicions to make her turn upon her closest friend! He had come to her for help and she had replied with accusations. What was the matter with her?

"Pilot…. I'm sorry," she managed at last. "I didn't realise…" 

Pilot sniffed. "Of course you didn't. You people never do. You have always been too quick to think the worst of me – when you think of me at all."

Aeryn felt guilt give way to indignation. "That's not true!" she retorted at once. "And you say we think the worst of you, but what about you thinking the worst of us! Why do you still accuse us even after we explained about the energy being?"

Pilot's expression was grim. "I believe what I see, not what I'm told. I learned that from my time with _your_ kind." His tone was bitter, a barely noticeable undertone shimmering under the words. His gaze was golden ice. "Just go now," he muttered softly, his eyes dropping back to his console. "We both have work to do."

Aeryn hesitated, firmly forcing her headache back behind her eyes. "Do you still trust me to repair the neural cluster?"

Pilot did not meet her gaze "I have not been left a great deal of choice."

The Sebacean nodded. "Then I'll comm your for directions when I get there."

Pilot did not respond. Aeryn paused, waiting for a microt longer but it quickly became apparent that she had been dismissed. Frowning to herself, the peacekeeper turned on her heel and started back across the walkway, her thoughts tumbling over in her mind, a tangled strand of logic trying to pull free from her pain. John had asked her to assess whether or not Pilot could be trusted, but she had to admit that she was coming away even less enlightened than before. The only thing that she could say with definite certainty was that the navigator was not himself. But what did that mean? Were his actions powered by stress and mistrust, a fear of a saboteur amongst those he had thought he could finally trust? Or was there a genuine malice behind his words, a desire to harm influenced by Moya's strange behaviour? Just what were his motivations? Whose side was he on? 

At the moment it seemed obvious that the answer was Moya's. But that being so, did he realise and support what she was doing or were his actions simply a result of strong but misguided loyalty?

Who the frell was he?

She had reached the golden arch of the door. With a sigh, Aeryn reached out and tapped the door control, glancing back over her shoulder at the mystery she had left behind.

The heat struck her with a blinding suddenness. Aeryn staggered, gasping as the sensation of burning spread across the exposed flesh of her arms and neck; her sight vanished behind an enveloping wall of steaming creamy liquid. The peacekeeper stumbled to her knees, rocking against the sudden deadly warmth as she fought to strip away the searingly hot amnexus fluid that had coated her skin out of nowhere. Grappling the edge of the walkway with her fingers, she hauled herself clear of the gushing white-gold waterfall, choking hoarsely to catch her breath and regain her senses over the mind-numbing hotness of the ruptured liquid. Her unprotected skin, already reddened, was peeling in alarming chunks. Behind her, the boiling gusher lessened softly from a rush to a trickle and finally, a persistent echoing drip that rang in her ears, rebounding against the stunned realisation of what she'd just seen like a chorus.

Frell, no! It couldn't have been….

"Officer Sun!" Pilot's voice seemed a very long way away but it focussed her thoughts like a sharpened blade. "Are you all right?"

A terrible coldness rose in Aeryn's chest, a rising wall of ice that subdued the raging heat of her outer shell with vicious fortitude. Yes. She knew what she had witnessed. 

She knew what it meant.

And she knew what she had to do about it.

Her scorched fingers wrapped firmly around the reassuringly cold form of her pulse pistol; in one swift motion, she swept to her feet, swinging her weapon out of its holster and bringing it to bear.

Levelled straight at Pilot.

The navigator blinked in disbelief. "Officer Sun?" he exclaimed. "What are you doing?"

"I might ask you the same question!" Aeryn's voice was shaking – with her free hand, she wiped her amnexus soaked hair from her face. "I saw you."

"Saw me?" Pilot's expression was a combination of incredulity and confusion. "Saw me what?"

Aeryn was shivering with a mixture of heat exposure, pain and anger – her pistol shook in her grip. She was no longer surprised – after a moment's consideration, she had seen at once the one possibility that even Crichton had never considered – the one possibility that fit every eventuality of the events aboard Kaalene. It was hard, so very hard to accept, after all that had happened in the past two cycles, all they had been through. But one thought cemented itself in her mind.

_I believe what I see, not what I'm told._

 Pilot's own words. How prophetically ironic that they should turn against him now.

When she finally spoke, Aeryn's voice was an emotionless void. "You triggered the control that burst that conduit."

Pilot's face was a picture of wide-eyed innocence. "Did I?" he commented blandly.

He was mocking her. A fiery anger rose within her, a swelling heat that seemed to blister her skin as fast as the congealing liquid. The pulse pistol shook with even greater violence. Her temples screamed.

"You know you did!" she snarled. "Don't play games with me! I know your console from end to end and I know what you did. I saw you!"

Pilot's expression grew cold. "You're mistaken."

"I'm not!" Aeryn started across the walkway, a slow threatening, step-by-step march, her weapon extended before her like an extension of her arm. "It's all been you, the entire time! _Hasn't_ _it_?" The peacekeeper could not believe the sheer depth of her anger, the total sense of betrayal that stretched bitter fingers around her heart and ruthlessly started to squeeze. At that instant, she wanted nothing more than to yank back on the trigger and cast the being who microts before she had called her closest friend into hapless oblivion. 

"The malfunctions, the accidents, the incidents!" she snapped instead. "You manipulated us, sending us from trap to trap whilst you sat back and laughed! Didn't you? _Didn't you?_"

Pilot fixed her with a long, low gaze. "Do you really expect me to answer that?" He let out a deep sigh, his eyes glowing like a pair of dying suns. "Here we go again," he declared harshly. "Always so quick to think the worst! You denounce me for saying it and yet here, microts later, you provide a case in point! I think perhaps, Officer Sun, it might be best if you went in search of Zhaan and had your wounds tended. I believe the heat and pain may have gone to your head!" His eyes fixed upon her stone-cast expression. "As it happens, I was in the process of trying to _prevent_ the rupture that you were so unfortunate as to be caught in. I was trying to regulate the flow!"

Aeryn remained unmoved. "Then why didn't you try to warn me?"

"I did not know _where_ it was going to rupture," Pilot pronounced each word distinctly, as though speaking to an idiotic child. "I am symbiotic, not psychic!" He glared. "You don't believe me? Then come and see for yourself! You can read my console! I will let you examine my data log and you will see that I was trying to help!"

Aeryn felt a shiver of doubt – abruptly she felt more than a little less sure of herself. Had she really seen Pilot try to kill her? Uncertainly rose in a twisting whirlwind, spinning and clawing in her mind – it was so dark in here, her eyes were so unsure behind the pounding of her mind and the glance over her shoulder had been brief, momentary. How could she be so confident as to accuse her friend of murder and espionage based on a cursory backward glance? She blinked, trying to force back the tide of mind-numbing agony that had replaced what had once been her head – she felt as though she was about to collapse. What if she had made a mistake? What if this was just another mind frell, another burst of angry recrimination just like the arguments that had filled this very chamber three arns previously? Could she really trust him after all?

She had to know.

"All right," she said, her voice an uncertain whisper. "I'm coming over. But no tricks."

Pilot's expression was bland. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Slowly, precisely, Aeryn stepped up to the console, her pulse pistol fixed firmly on the space between Pilot's eyes.

"Arms away," she ordered firmly.

With a roll of his eyes, Pilot dutifully lifted all four of his lengthy arms away from his controls.

"Happy now?" he stated mordantly. "Hurry up and look so I can get on with my work. I'm leaving Moya unattended whilst I'm satisfying your paranoia."

Aeryn ignored the complaint. "Don't move," she commanded, pressing her weapon against the soft flesh of the navigator's face. "Just let me look."

Her head was pounding with even more determination – forcing back the pain as she tried to concentrate, Aeryn gripped her pistol tighter as she took her eyes away from Pilot to peer down intensely at the flashing maze of readouts. Now where was the data log….

Searing pain shot through her blistered wrist as it was seized in a vicious, vice-like grip –all at once, her pulse pistol was gone, ripped from her grasp in one swift, ruthless swipe to be tossed away into dark oblivion. Even as she tried to turn, a second grasp closed around her hair, lifting her from her feet to suspend her in agonised mid-air before the suddenly massive form of Moya's faithful navigator.

"Did you really think you could stop me with one pathetic pulse pistol?" Pilot spat the words at her in disdainful fury, the terrible grip of his claw around her head tightening as she struggled desperately to break free. His eyes glowed like fiery embers in a too-bright fire. "Foolish peacekeeper."

The impact was shocking. Aeryn reeled, screaming for help that was not going to come, trying desperately with all she had to pull away from the vicious grasp of her former friend, but Pilot was too powerful, his expression one of grim but cruel satisfaction as he swung with all his might to slam her head into the bulkhead for a second time. Blood filled Aeryn's vision; she felt herself slipping, sliding away from consciousness, falling towards the dark abyss of rainbow lights that rose around her eyes. She caught a final glimpse of Pilot, no trace of the gentle, compassionate navigator she had known just three days before to be found, his two burning eyes boring into her soul with heartless fury. 

He was smiling.

Then her head smashed into the bulkhead for the third and final time, and for the second time that day, she tumbled into blackness.

**********************************

"This is Captain Jarit Brax of the leviathan Kaalene, in orbit of the mining moon at Dar'scay-lat . I'm calling on a frequency from a hijacked DRD – we can no longer safely use our comms.  I beg you, if you can hear me, help us.  We're under attack from our…"

Abruptly the hagged face of Jarit Brax vanished behind a wall of pulsing silver static. John Crichton swore loudly, slamming his fist against the workbench in frustration. What the frell was the matter with this thing?

It was like clockwork. The early portions of the tape had proved quite simple to fully restore – it had taken him no more than an arn to have the first few microts playing in pristine condition on the Peacekeeper holo-imager. But for some reason, fifteen microts in and just as Brax was getting to the important stuff, the picture would abruptly lose cohesion and jump to a point three or four microts down the line. It was a fault that seemed to run through the entire recording, an error line that blocked out various key parts of the text and John was starting to have a nasty suspicion that someone had implanted it deliberately. And since he could only think of two people who had had both opportunity and motive to do such a thing….

It was not a pleasant prospect.

With a sigh, John stepped away from the workbench, taking several deep breaths as he scanned the room once more for DRDs. The last thing he needed at the moment was for Moya and Pilot to take a sudden interest in his activities – that would be a sure fire route to anarchy. The others had already set out on their various missions to investigate possible causes of Moya's malfunction; Zhaan had made her way to command to run some covert virus scans of Moya's systems, D'Argo was in the neighbouring maintenance bay, examining the transport pod they had flown to Kaalene and Chiana had taken the space suits and the breathing masks they had used on the moon's surface to examine them for evidence of tampering. Even Rygel had started helping with the repairs.

John sighed. Everyone was pulling their weight except for him – and all because of some stupid fault in the recording! He knew that solving this problem was the key to the secret – if he could just unlock this error, the recording would be clear, he was certain of it. It was something to do with the tracking, a shift in bandwidth or something... If he could just…..

Inspiration dawned. Groping in a nearby box of parts, Crichton yanked free a blank recording chip and inserted it into the data-stream, quickly reprogramming the imager's settings. If he could re-record Brax's message, adjusting for the interference manually….

It was an anxious few hundred microts. John concentrated hard, fiddling and readjusting with a dexterity he barely knew he had as ran through the procedure as quickly as he could. As the recording ground to a halt, John lifted the rerecorded chip in one hand and turned it over in his fingers.

"Please, God, let this work," he muttered under his breath.

With a deep breath, he removed the damaged recording from the slot and inserted the new one. With a shaking finger, he pressed play.

Brax's image sprang to life, as familiar to John now as his own face in the mirror. He seemed clearer somehow, more coherent – the human felt his heart begin to race as he listened to the opening words that he knew so well he could all but recite. Was this it? Would Brax be able to enlighten them somehow, to tell them what was wrong with Moya? He had no hopes of finding a cure, considering the drastic measures the Kaalene crew had been forced to take but if they could just find out the reason….

"….from our Pilot! We don't know why…."

 What the….?

John hit the pause button – instantly Brax's image froze, a motionless reflection of the man who was suddenly staring at him with wide disbelieving eyes. Had Brax just said….?

He hit rewind. The image spooled back a few microts. Leaning close, all but touching the image in his anxiety to hear correctly, John activated the distress call once more.

"I beg you, if you can hear me, help us.  We're under attack from our Pilot!"

John froze. His heart turned to ice. He stared hypnotised at the flickering image of a man more than twenty solar days dead, watching it through as though to stop would end the world.

How could this be? 

The Wrardi man was bloodstained, sweat pouring down his dark features. "We don't know why he turned on us like this – there's no reason for it, he just went crazy and started killing us one by one! He's gone insane, he's trying to kill us all!" Brax's face contorted – he glanced anxiously over his shoulder before continuing in a tone deep-laden with despair. "There's no way to escape – he blocks us at every turn, captures us, tortures us and rips us apart. DRDs, environmentals, even the frelling doors – they're all a threat. How can you fight back when your very ship rises up against you? Please help us - we're trapped in this Hezmana. We have to fight back – we can't hide any more. We have to forget friendships that once were and be as ruthless as he's become." His eyes grew haunted. "I've decided to cripple Kaalene. I hate myself for this – he's been a home and a friend for six cycles now but I don't have another choice. We can't get close enough to disconnect Pilot from the ship – his power is Kaalene and we have to sever that link one way or another. My crew are going to distract him with an assault on his chamber – I'll use the time to take out Kaalene's neural nexus. I tell you this in the hope that, even if we all die, someone may find this message and restore Kaalene somehow. He had no part in this – it was all Pilot. It's a vague hope; but it's the only hope we have. I say again, if you can hear us, help us. Help Kaalene. I have to go now. I can't risk this transmission being detected. DRD, transmit message."

The image cut out. The air shivered.

John didn't move.

Pilot.

Was that possible?

Disturbingly enough it made sense – certainly it fitted together all the pieces on the mystery of Kaalene. There _had_ been a mutiny but not the one D'Argo had suggested – it was the DRDs acting at the behest of the Pilot that the Wrardi miners had been battling in the corridors, the DRDs that had ripped innocent men down to strips of meat that he really didn't care to dwell on. And that assault, all those lives lost in the battle to reach the Pilot's chamber – it had been no more than a distraction, a chance for Jarit Brax to bring down the source of all their wayward Pilot's power – Kaalene – before being gunned down himself out of vengeance. And then as the Pilot was distracted as he tried to fix the damage, the crew had broken through and set off a mining charge….

But was that what was happening here?

Was Pilot of all people their saboteur?

It made no sense. Why would Pilot damage Moya, the source of his power, his companion, his very life? It would be suicide. And why would he be so insistent on fixing the damage if harming Moya was his intent – why drive them round to do repairs in one breath and denounce them as causing them with the next? Admittedly, he could be trying to throw suspicion away from himself, but to what end? What was he trying to gain from all this – apart from a few sick laughs at the crew's expense? If he wanted them dead, why the frell didn't he just kill them?

 John sighed. Well he had repaired the tape – but far from solving their mystery it had just exposed even more unanswerable questions. But one thing was for certain – he needed to get the others together as quickly as possible to talk this new revelation through. After all, if it really was Pilot and not Moya causing the damage, they would all have to….

Aeryn.

He had sent Aeryn to Pilot's chamber.

John felt his heart drop through his boots.

He had sent her into the lion's den and she didn't even know there was a lion.

Frell! 

John reached for his comm mindlessly for a moment before abruptly remembering who was likely to be at the other end. Swearing under his breath, he wheeled, racing away from the workbench as he scrambled for the door.

It slammed shut in his face.

For a microt John could only stare in disbelief. He tapped the control. Nothing. He hit it again. Still nothing. Furious frustration roared in his ears – logic was thrust aside. Dammit, Aeryn was in danger, what was the matter with this thing?

"Open, damn you!" Roaring in anger, Crichton slammed his fist into the door-lock, pounding it and screaming until the blood seeped through his fingers but still the lock stubbornly refused to budge.

"That isn't going to help, you know."

The disembodied voice made John jump – startled he spun around. 

The guns barrels of a dozen DRDs glinted back at him.

Oh frell.

"Pilot," he muttered softly, slumping back against the door. "God-dammit, it is you."

The voice that shimmered over the comm in response was cold and mocking, a smooth wave of sound that was almost unrecognisable as the Pilot he had come to know and care about.

"Congratulations Commander," he drawled dryly. "It took you long enough."

END OF PART FOUR.

**********************************


	5. Screams in Silence

Breaking Point - Part Five.

By Jess Pallas.

Disclaimer; I don't own Farscape or any of its characters. Please don't sue me!

Feedback; Go on then! E-mail me at jesspallas@hotmail.com

Archiving; If you like it, take it. But please, let me know first.

Rating:  PG through PG –13 - some bits are rather grim. Contains scenes of violence and fairly mild gore. Be warned.

Category; Drama, Action.

Spoilers; TWWW, DNAMS, TGAS, IET, CDM.

Timeframe; Midway through S2 probably after LATP. I can't be specific because I'm not sure myself!

Summary: The crew discover a dead leviathan whose Pilot and crew have been brutally murdered. But who was responsible – and could the same fate be about to befall Moya?

Copyright 29-04-2002.

 John couldn't move.

He wasn't sure if it was the icy shock that shivered down his spine, the cold dread lodged in his chest or both of the above that had caused his paralysis; all he knew was that is entire body was locked in petrifying immobile hypnosis as his eyes fixed with horrified resignation upon the hard, mechanical outlines of Moya's familiar DRDs. He felt sick, his stomach churning in a tumbling wormhole as the grim truth of his situation crashed down around his ears. Pilot was their saboteur. Moya was innocent. And thanks to him, the others had no idea – no idea that they were almost certain imprisoned within a death-trap of a ship, destined to follow in the bloody death throes of Jarit Brax and his crew at the hands of a menacing and seemingly unstable being that a few days before they would have happily trusted with their lives.

What the frell was going on?

And what had he done with Aeryn?

"Pilot." He breathed the familiar name like a curse. "Where's…..?"

"Officer Sun? Your precious Aeryn?" Pilot interrupted coolly. John could almost sense the slow, cold smile that must have crossed the navigator's face. "So predictable, Crichton." He laughed softly, like an echo dancing in ice. "And so pathetic."

Fire stirred deep within John, icy fear swamped in an instant by fiery anger. "What have you done with her?" he growled softly. "If you've harmed so much as a hair on her head…."

A dozen gun barrels targeted themselves abruptly at his forehead. Pilot's calm voice rippled through the air, his tone laced with more than an edge of mockery. "In case you've failed to grasp the situation, _commander_," he drawled smoothly. "You really are in no position to make threats." He laughed again, a soft, low chuckle completely devoid of any humour. "Especially whilst Officer Sun is my…. _special_ guest."

John felt a helpless anger consume him – his grip on his emotions vanished beneath the cold swell of Pilot's playful cruelty. He felt his fists clench, his shoulders swell – he wheeled in sudden fury at the gentle curve of the clamshell balanced above the work bench, a dormant golden grasp that hid behind it's silence the cause of all their troubles.

"Pilot, damn you, show yourself!" John's rationality went out of the nearest airlock; he slammed his already bloody fingers down on the surface in raging, impotent anger as he screamed at the silent golden shell. "_Face_ me, you bastard! What have you done to her? _What have you done to her?_"

There was distinct amusement in Pilot's tone at the human's futile fury. "Aside from knocking her unconscious? Nothing."

There was a long menacing pause – John could sense the air turning to ice.

"Yet."

John fought to regain control of himself – raging at empty clamshells was not going to help Aeryn or anyone else for that matter, especially not himself. He had to stay in control – he had to use his mind or Pilot would have him for breakfast. He had to think this through! Pilot had been their navigator and friend for more than a cycle – he wouldn't just turn on them like this without a damn good reason. Something had to have affected him somehow, got into his mind and warped it. But what? And how could he stop it before he followed the Wrardi and ended up as just so much mangled dog meat?

"Why?" The question slipped from the human's lips almost unbidden. "Pilot, why are you doing this?"

"Why not?" The cool, casual response was not quite what John had expected. "I have thought about it so many times before, imagined it, dreamed about it, as you people hacked off my arm, threw Moya and myself into life threatening situations and all but abandoned us without a second thought. But it was only a dream then, Crichton, only a fantasy, pondered on in idle hours in a distant corner of my thoughts. I never would have done it."

John gazed back up at the clamshell but still no image flickered there. "What changed?"

"I did." A hard edge, like a sharpened blade cut across Pilot's voice. "It was Officer Sun that made me see it, Officer Sun that showed me the way. She told me I didn't deserve the kind of treatment I endure from you people and I realised that she was right – I have suffered untold indignities at your hands out of my own misplaced sense of guilt and ridiculous desire for the atonement of a crime I never even committed! It was pathetic! I was pathetic!" 

There was a pause. "But then it all became clear." 

John could sense the icy smile on Pilot's face once more. "Ironic isn't it, Crichton - that I should be made to see the truth by the very peacekeeper responsible for all the hurt I suffered when I came aboard this ship!" There was an undisguised threat behind his words. "I'll be sure to thank her properly. I'll be sure to thank you all."

"Pilot…" John half-stepped forward towards the DRDs, but froze in his tracks at the threatening buzz that arose from them. Left arguing with an insubstantial voice, he chose to address mid air. "For God sakes, listen to yourself! We've been friends for more than a cycle…."

"Friends!" Pilot's derisive exclamation interrupted John's attempt at a speech. "Is that how humans treat a friend then? Like a lackey or a slave to do their bidding and follow their commands? Like a servant forced to labour with no rest, no respect, no equality or right to speak if their words do not agree with yours? My intelligence is a hundred, a thousand times any of yours, my species superior physically and mentally. I should not be forced to serve you! _You_ should be serving _me_!" He took an angry breath. "Your presence is an insult to Moya."

John jumped on the reference instantly. "Is this what Moya wants?" he exclaimed abruptly. "Does she share all these feelings of yours? Does she want you to kill us?"

He'd struck some kind of nerve – the long, uncertain silence was confirmation of that. John could tell that Pilot had been forced to mull over his response and that gave him a sudden surge of hope. If it was just Pilot and not Moya, then Pilot could be stopped. Moya could talk to him. If necessary, she could stop him.

If he could only get to Moya…

"Moya….does not know what she wants." Pilot's voice broke abruptly into his thoughts. There was a slight hint of uncertainty about his tone. "She is….. very confused at the moment. So I must act in her best interests."

"By attacking us?" John could not keep the incredulousness from his tone. "How is that in Moya's best interests?"

Pilot's voice shimmered with sudden coldness. "Moya is not well. The disruptions to her systems were not all by my hand. Something – or someone – has made her ill, disorientated, unable to think clearly. I have no choice but to act in her stead to protect us both. And you are the most likely culprits." There was an alarmingly clinical edge behind his tone. "Once you are all eliminated, she will be better. And everything will be as it should be."

John sighed. "So what are you going to do? Skewer our body parts up in the corridors like trophies? Or just blast us to beyond with the DRDs?"

Pilot let out a derisive laugh. "Please! Credit me better than that!" He sighed easily. "It is obvious that my counterpart on Kaalene had no imagination, although admittedly he did have a great deal more specimens to deal with. I intend to devise much more poetic demises for my awkward little crew." 

There was a threatening pause. "You misdeeds of the last cycle and a half have given me more than enough material to work with."

John's ice-cold feeling returned in a rush. "Pilot, _think_ about what you're saying!" he protested vehemently. "We are _not_ the ones responsible for this! We've been trying to _help_ you, for frell's sake! We would _never, ever_ do _anything_ to harm you or Moya! We care too much about you both to even _contemplate_ it! Why the frell can't you see that?"

Pilot's voice was a dry, sarcastic drawl. "Such beautiful sentiments, Crichton. I can hardly contain my indifference."

John cursed the air loudly. "Dammit, Pilot, will you listen to…."

"_No!_" 

The sheer force of the declaration shocked John to silence as Pilot's tone of casual mockery dissolved into sudden hardness. "I've had enough of listening to you, Crichton! Enough of listening as you insult me when you think I cannot hear you! Enough of being ignored when it suits you and taken advantage of when it doesn't! Enough of being molested and mistreated like a common, helpless slave! And more, so much more than enough of seeing you people abuse Moya's trust by flinging her into mortal danger of your causing without so much as a please or thank you!" His voice echoed like cracking ice. "I've reached breaking point, commander. And now it's time to pay."

John felt his stomach churning once more– he fought to resist the urge to scream in helpless fury. 

"What are you going to do to us?" he asked softly.

"Us…" Pilot hissed the word. "You should worry more about yourself, Crichton. It's a little too late to concern yourself with the others."

John felt his heart, already dropping, smash into a thousand shards – his voice, struggling for a single breath, broke under the strain. "Pilot, what the hell have you….?"

Once again, Pilot replied with a mocking laugh. It seemed ironic, considering how little he had laughed before, than he had chosen to take it up now. "Poor Crichton," he murmured in amusement. "Always the last to know. Did you not realise? This ship has been locked down for almost an arn – ever since Officer Sun got a little to close for comfort. You were the only one on board who did_ not_ know it was me!"

John stared into nothingness, his eyes wide. "What have you done to them?" he whispered bleakly.

Abruptly the silent clamshell flickered into life; the golden curves of one of Moya's corridors unfolded before John's helpless eyes. Pilot's voice echoed over the flickering image in a low drawl, cold and teasing.

"See for yourself," he suggested.

***********************************

 Pain.

D'Argo had known nothing like it, not even from his days as a peacekeeper prisoner. His breath was a poisonous rasp that echoed in his ears; he fought to stay upright against the coursing agony of exhaustion that seeped through his bones, a crippling counterpoint to the pinprick slashes that littered his skin, scattering a tell tale trail of blood that mixed both dark and clear on the golden floor behind him. Burn marks flowed from cut to cut across exposed flesh, clinging beneath tatters of shredded robe that hung over his staggering form like a shroud. He ran, legs numb, the motion mechanical and barely conscious as he searched with desperate eyes for something, _anything_ that resembled a weapon.

They were coming again.

He could hear them.

A slow distant whirr. A sound that had once been normal, a part of everyday life and an occasional minor irritation was now a harbinger of doom. He glanced left, glanced right; he could not see them but he knew that they were coming just as they had done before. Just as they had when they had ripped his clothes. Just as they had when they had stabbed his skin. Just as they had when they had riddled him with burns. One new pain followed swiftly by the next – and now they had released him to run, to flee like a whipped animal from their advancing hoard as they guided him along a chosen path to coldly hunt him down.

What would they do next?

A flash of light; a pair of shining eyes; D'Argo quickly changed direction, darting away with all the agility he possessed through the gaping darkness of an open door into the ion back-wash chamber. Smoke swirled around his knees; he stumbled and almost fell, groping for some kind of balance as he staggered, reeling on weakened muscles. His eyes swept the room – no, there was no sign of them. But there was no telling how soon they would return.

The far door beckoned invitingly. The Luxan knew exactly what lay just beyond that simple portal – a quick few steps to an access vent and a rapid crawl down to the maintenance bay and possible freedom. He had no delusions of being released through the docking bay. But if he could just reach Aeryn's prowler, just launch it and make a run, it might just be possible to shoot his way out and find help. He would regret the harm to Moya more than anything in the world but what was he to do? If nothing else, the maintenance bay might have weapons.

He rushed forward. The open portal yearned.

And slammed shut in his face.

For a microt, D'Argo could only stare as his last hope, his only plan dissolved before his eyes. Hyper-rage fizzled within his skull – for an instant, he almost turned on the door with his bare fist, intent upon vengeful destruction. But then a low hum pervaded his senses – his instinct for survival overcame his rage.

There was no time for this. He had to get out or he would be trapped.

He turned for the door just in time to watch it swing lazily to a close.

Darkness swallowed the room in deep corners – only a single light, a swirling blue strobe that danced like liquid lightning across the smoky surface from some unseen source in the roof, remained. The silence echoed.

And then began to change.

It was slow, invasive, cunning, an almost unnoticed addition to the quiet that rose and grew into it was no longer quiet at all, but a soft, familiar humming that rose like a gentle crescendo on the crest of an advancing wave of sound. The mist began to shift and pulse – a dull glow pervaded it like a halo, an easy swell of light that surrounded D'Argo in broad crescent moon. Beneath the cover of smoke, lights twinkled like yellow stars and rose as though with nightfall to emerge as a forest of dark stalks topped by sun like gleaming bulbs that softly began to advance.

They had found him.

"Hello Ka D'Argo."

The Luxan did not start at the voice. He had been expecting it.

"Pilot," he growled coldly. "You Hezmana-cursed son of a…"

"There really is no need for that." The navigator's interruption was smooth and easy. "Those would hardly be fitting as last words."

"Fitting, my mivonks!" Suddenly defiant, D'Argo drew himself up and realised a string of the foulest Luxan curses he could imagine into the empty air. "Record _that_ on your data log!" he bellowed. "What the frell is the matter with you? Why are you doing this?"

"Revenge." The response was immediate. "And to teach a lesson. I would have thought that was obvious."

"Revenge?" D'Argo could hardly believe what he was hearing. "What are you talking about?"

"It's quite simple, Ka D'Argo." Abruptly the legion of DRDs ranged out before him whirred into action, closing the semi-circle with cold firmness as the Luxan took a step backwards. "Simple enough even for _you_ to understand. I wanted you to know how it feels."

"What are you talking about?"

The cold skinsteel of the chamber wall shuddered against D'Argo's shoulders, bringing his retreat to an abrupt halt. He scanned the room quickly in search of an escape but there was nothing –no door, no vent, no weapon and no way out. In a fevered instant he even considered leaping the advancing DRDs but there were too many, stretched too deep – he would be dead in microts if he tried to pass them.

He was trapped.

He was doomed.

After all he had been through, was this really how he was destined to die? Tortured to death by DRDs at the hands of a maniacal Pilot?

Cold fear – the fear of death - welled within his chest, consuming him with almost uncontrollable fervour. How could this be happening?

"_That_ is what I mean." There was a cold satisfaction to Pilot's tone, a brutal, icy pleasure that was deeply and fundamentally disturbing. "_That_ is what I wanted. I wanted you to know the grip of _real_ fear, _true_ terror, to feel what it is like to be so afraid you can barely draw your breath. I wanted you to know what it's like to be trapped, helpless, with no way to escape and no power to resist as those around you inflict pain that you never deserved. I wanted you to understand the horror of seeing someone you had come to trust turn on you in a selfish whim." There was a long pause. D'Argo could sense the animosity of Moya's navigator shimmering through the walls like an invasive disease and knew that whatever he was expecting, there was worse to come.

"I wanted you to know," Pilot's voice, when it came, was soft. "Just how much it hurts to lose an arm."

The pain was indescribable. D'Argo roared and screamed in agony as the burning hot spike of a DRD the Luxan had not even noticed, plunged into his shoulder, piercing it though and pinning him to the wall like a doll. Even as he fought desperately to concentrate through the pain, he heard a slow, fizzling fire beside his ear and realised that a second DRD, this time armed with a cutting tool had halted by his arm.

"I'm going to take you apart, Luxan," D'Argo could barely breathe, barely hear, but somehow Pilot's voice forced it's way into his consciousness. "Limb by limb, organ by organ, until there is nothing left of you but an interesting display of Luxan anatomy. Enjoy your death, Ka D'Argo. You've earned it."

With a flare of light, the cutting tool came to life.

*******************************

  He couldn't breathe.

Rygel surfaced with a splutter, fighting for some kind of breath, some kind of relief from the terrible, noxious, thick black excrement that now coated the entire of the exterior of his body and good proportion of the interior of his nose and throat. As an aquatic Hynerian, he could breathe under most kinds of water, but this disgusting guano was impossible, as bad – no worse, far worse – than mud, coating him, choking him, invading his body and sucking his life away. He gasped and spat with all his strength, as he hovered face down over the jet waste that oozed in the foot of Pilot's chamber, his tiny limbs sore and chafing from the spread eagle position in which he had been humiliatingly bound to the underside of his own thronesled. Above him, the chirps and beeps of the impertinent DRD that had rendered him thus and now actuated the controls for his regular dunkings, sounded like poison to his ears.

"Pilot!" he bellowed with a gasp. "Pilot, I demand that you cease this immediately! I demand that you release me! I demand…"

His words were swallowed, stolen by his sudden submersion into the trill-bat refuge once more. He struggled and fought as the stinking purple-black ooze filled his mouth, invaded his body, but the bonds that held him in place were too firm, too strong. By the time he emerged once more, the former Dominar was three-quarters drowned and half dead.

"Demand?" Rygel blinked as Pilot's soft, smooth drawl echoed out of nowhere. "Is that the only word you know? You demand, you want, you need, you must have. Every sentence you speak begins and ends with you. Do you think of nothing else?"

Rygel's voice was a croak. "Please….stop this. I've done nothing…"

"Exactly." Pilot chuckled softly. "You've done nothing. Three words that sum up the life of Dominar Rygel the sixteenth, disposed ruler of Hyneria, who never quite grasped the idea that the universe does not revolve around him. You lie, you cheat, and you conceal your true motives. You flout your arrogance, refuse to help and take what you want as it suits you without earning or deserving it. And then you have the infinite nerve to tell me, me that has foolishly wasted the last two cycles of my life serving the worthless without a word of complaint, me that was forced to lose my arm for your selfish desires, that I should think of somebody else for a change!" The rage in Pilot's voice was no longer concealed, the soft tone set aside. 

"Well how's this for thinking of somebody else for a change, your eminence?" With a rasp of horror, Rygel was plunged once more into the pitch-dark putrid depths. For several agonising microts, he lingered there before being yanked to the surface once more to be greeted by the sound of Pilot's fury.

"I promise, I'm thinking about you very much," the navigator was declaring harshly. "How much I hate the sound of your whining little voice!"

Bat dung filled Rygel's vision – his eyes screamed with pain.

"How many times you've almost turned your back on us to preserve your own putrid little hide!"

The odour filled the Hynerian's nostrils, choking him – he fought to empty his lungs of the gunk but only filled them more.

"How much I despise cleaning up your mess!"

The stench oozed through the Dominar's body – he could feel even his resilient system weakening as the horrendous excrement consumed him once more. He emerged a wreck, weakened, shivering and utterly helpless, stripped of all his grandeur and his cunning by simple, straightforward torture. He stared down at the shifting mass of darkness beneath him and wondered just how many more times he would be able to endure it's assault.

"Oh yes, Dominar Rygel." Pilot's voice was as black as the refuge beneath him. "I'm _definitely_ thinking of you right now."

And then, helpless and fading, Rygel felt himself plunge into the black once more.

But this time he did not come up.

*************************************

  She tried to scream.

Instantly she was choking, her mouth and throat consumed by invasive particles, her breath snatched away as she slumped to crawl on hands and knees across the white-coated golden floor of Moya's command. The air before her eyes was whirling, dancing, a convulsive, tangled mass of white and grey, flakes that crushed any breathable atmosphere between their tattered edges as they stole away both life and hope from Pa'u Zotah Zhaan.

And worse, there was the sound. It screeched in her ears, a piercing, mind-blowing discomfort that clawed like lightning over the soft surface of her brain, loud and inescapable, consuming every corner of the room as it bounced and echoed in a growing crescendo until it was so discordant as to be unbearable. The Delvian could feel it vibrating in her ears, pulsing across her mind, unravelling one by one the tenuous threads of her sanity. She couldn't breath, for the particles in the air were poison to her, couldn't see for all that filled her eyes was deadly white, couldn't hear for her ears were crushed by agonising sound-waves, her sense blown and useless, her demise imminent. With all the consciousness she could muster within the depths of her soul, Zhaan mustered her mind and cried out in desperation to the goddess.

The noise ceased.

For an instant, Zhaan could scarcely believe it. Even the air seemed suddenly less heavy – she found that she could almost see, almost breath. Could it be? Had salvation come in some magnificent unseen way?

Was this not the end?

"Pa'u Zotah Zhaan."

The Delvian's hope dropped like a stone, to be swallowed once more by despair, at the sound of a voice that just an arn before she would have treasured. She coughed, choking up the gasping mess that blocked her throat and turned her gaze to the golden, half-lost ceiling overhead.

"Pilot," she whispered. "Why?"

"Because I have not been entirely honest with you." The navigator's voice flowed invisibly as though from Moya's very walls. "And felt it was time to put that to rights." She could almost sense his smile. "I'm afraid, honoured priestess, that I really, really _hate_ your singing."

Zhaan stared. "And for that you try to kill me?"

"Something had to be done." There was a mockery lacing Pilot's tone that was completely out of place for Moya's usually placid navigator. "For the sake of my sanity, you had to be silenced."

Zhaan struggled to her knees. "I think it is a little late to worry about your sanity."

"Now, now." Pilot gave a low, cold laugh. "Just because I am no longer willing to play the happy little servant, does not mean I have gone insane; quite the opposite in fact. I am seeing sense for the first time in my life. Which is more than can be said for you."

Zhaan tried to breathe, but the air was still too thick with whiteness for it to be comfortably feasible. "Me?" she managed.

"Yes, you." Pilot's tone was pleasantly conversational. "You had it right once, Zhaan, before you took all of this holy nonsense into your head. It is in there, in you. You know the joy that is to kill."

"No!" Zhaan tried to stand but her legs, robbed of their strength by exhaustion, gave way beneath her.

Pilot ignored her. "I do not understand why would fight it so," he continued coolly. "You expend so much effort, so much of your strength to maintain a façade of peace and control, to keep it all bottled in, but it's always there just beneath the surface, and you know it always will be. Why do you waste your time?" He laughed softly. "Just let it go, Zhaan. It's so much easier this way – and so much more fun!"

"Never!" Somehow Zhaan managed to half-rise, a slumped, weakened figure weighed down by her priestly robes and a blanket of pure whiteness. "The darkness is in all our souls, Pilot, but we must fight it, we must keep it down or…."

A burst of screaming sound sent her tumbling to her knees. In the echoes of the ensuing silence, Pilot's tone was weary. "Do not think to lecture me, priestess. I was hoping I could spare you; that you might come to understand. Obviously, I was mistaken."

Abruptly, the air thickened as choking white sprayed once more from every vent, stirring their settling fellows back into a frenzy of spindrift. Zhaan's eyes were washed over once more, her brief glimpses of the golden surfaces of command swallowed as she fought to find a gasp of air between the breathless masses. She struggled to speak, to plead, desperate to make Pilot understand, to reason with him but she simply did have the air to spare for words. Coughing frantically, she slumped forward.

"Moya and I really did not appreciate it when your wretched pollen clogged her systems and almost killed her." Pilot's voice was like ice. "Any more than I appreciated your cruel conspiracy with Rygel and D'Argo to take my arm in exchange for your selfish needs. I'm tired of keeping my anger to myself." There was a malicious note underlying the words, a cold cruelty born of bitterness and a love of pain. "You are always telling us how important it is to share our feelings. This is me sharing mine."

"Pilot," Zhaan struggled to force the name out but try as she might, the best she could achieve was a strangled gasp.

"I hate you all." Pilot's voice was oddly bland. "And I want you to die. I've had enough of talk. I'd rather just watch you suffer."

"Pilot," Zhaan tried to speak again; again she found herself unable. She felt light-headedness swim across her mind in a dangerous wave, tumbling over and over alongside Pilot's gentle laughter.

"I wouldn't waste your breathe with talk, Pa'u Zhaan," he whispered softly. "I'm afraid I won't be listening."

And then the screeching stabbed her ears once more, piercing, eating, swallowing her consciousness as the Delvian slumped to the floor in a heap, her hands gripped to her head as she stared blank-eyed into a white nothing. Her lips moved, mouthing wordlessly the desperate passage of her thoughts.

_Goddess help me_, they said. _Goddess help us all._

************************************

"Help me! D'Argo! Crichton! Aeryn! Somebody, please, help me!"

She scrabbled for a grip, her gloved fingers scraping with frantic desperation against the slick, sheer smoothness of the golden wall of her vertical prison. It was a pipe, a vent, some kind of cylindrical conduit that took frell knew what to frell knows where – at that particular moment, she really didn't care that much. What mattered to her was that it had been blocked, firmly, beneath her feet and there was absolutely no way she could climb or leap several times her height up to the latticed grate that closed the pipe above her.  There was no grip and her attempt to edge upwards had quickly failed due to the slippery slick nature of the surfaces.

It had reached her waist now.

Chiana paused, her chest heaving as she fought to stay calm, to think clearly and not to panic. It was hard to concentrate in the smothering, drowning cascade of uncomfortably warm amnexus fluid that was tumbling down the pipe, coating her from head to foot in sticky, clinging liquid, but she struggled to try; this was no time to lose her head. She had to reach the vent – it was the only way out, her only escape from an extremely unpleasant drowning. She had already considered and discarded the possibility of waiting for the level to rise and floating to the top with its aid; the amnexus fluid was simply too thick and too strong – staying afloat on top of it would be impossible once it reached a height greater than her neck. No, she had to reach the vent before the fluid rose to a level that would most certainly see the end of her.

It had reached her stomach.

No time to waste them.

The Nebari's dark eyes ran over the possibilities surrounding her. They read only one. Steeling herself against the slimy onslaught from above, Chiana braced her back and arms against the slippery wall and hauled free a leg, setting herself firmly between the two immovable barriers. She could feel amnexus trickling down the skin of her back – her hold was tenuous at best. But it was try this or drown in a _very _unpleasant fashion.

She raised the other leg and pushed upwards.

It was difficult. The walls were slick and mobile with fluid – the structure was solid but its surface was not – and the constant cascade from above undermined her barely maintained grip. But somehow, her body moving on instinct and sheer pounding adrenalin, she began to leg her way upwards. 

The grate was getting closer. Chiana felt herself laugh, a hysterical hope that instantly filled her lungs with gunk and made her choke. For a microt she almost tumbled, was almost consumed in the hungry cream liquid that waited below, oozing to swallow the desperate, grey little morsel whole. But her fingers screamed against the flowing walls, her heels dug in, her back buried itself so deep into the wall as to almost become part of it. She was not going to fall. She was not going to die. Not now and not like this. She had been through too much to drown unnoticed in some hidden pipe.

The grate was just above her head.

Pressing herself into the walls as firmly as she was able, Chiana sealed closed her amnexus soaked eyes and thrust her hands into the air.

Instantly, her feet lost purchase, tumbling away from her towards the abyss of off white beneath but her fingers had already grasped the curving lines of the lattice, clinging like tortured souls to the hope of holding on as the rest of her life and form fell away. For a moment they yanked, chafed and tore but to her own astonishment, they also held, swinging her in a slow pendulum arc over the rising tide that tickled at her feet.

Chiana opened her eyes. She was dangling by her fingertips. 

A strength borne of sheer bloody-minded determination flowed into her screaming limbs – she felt her arms haul her sodden form upwards, felt them loop themselves in a clinging embrace through the slimy bars of the vent grate, holding her firmly against sudden, lingering plummets into death. Struggling against the torrent, she peered through the life preserving bars of her prison and caught a heady glimpse of a control panel and just beyond, another latticed vent, this time cutting vertically into the wall.

A way out. Open this vent, open the other and she would escape. She would be free.

Her fingers reached out, groping, searching for the simple touch, the quick release and the end of her ordeal.

They found broken wires. A ruined console.

The end of hope.

"Come now. Did you really believe I would make it so easy?" Pilot's voice rippled out of nowhere, like a plague, airborne and deadly. "I'm afraid you've been wasting your time. I had that panel disconnected almost an arn ago."

"Pilot," Chiana gasped the name. "Why are you doing this to me? I've never done anything to deserve this – not to you! Not to Moya! Not to anyone!"

Pilot's voice dripped with sardonic amusement. "I'm sure I can find someone to dispute that. But just for now, I'm afraid I must concur. It is true you have done nothing overtly bad to us." There was a thoughtful pause. "I'm afraid I simply find you _incredibly_ irritating!"

The amnexus burst from above in a surge of tempestuous proportions. Chiana's grip, already tenuous was washed away – screaming, she lost her grasp on the lattice bars. Air rushed passed her, her stomach somersaulted as she plummeted down, down, down, into the inevitable.

The hungry amnexus fluid opened its flowing jaws and consumed her whole.

**************************

"No!"

John's helpless cry echoed across the maintenance bay as he stared in fascinated horror at the clamshell that had just played out the tormented fates of his friends. Fury ate at his soul like an angry beast that would accept no respite but cold and fast revenge. And he could do nothing. He was helpless. If he moved he was dead and what use was a dead man to dead friends except as a little company on the road to wherever the Hell the dead went when the curtain went down and the fat lady sung? And even he could escape, he couldn't avoid the nagging truth that this was Pilot he was up against, not some nameless peacekeeper or alien loony of the week. Despite the navigator's claims, John knew that there was no way that Pilot could be in control of his own actions. Something screwy was going on with his mind – as John saw it, he needed saving as much as the rest of them. And then he could take his cold, hard revenge on who or whatever it was that had turned his quiet, gentle friend into a psychotic, frothing lunatic.

"Pilot, damn you, stop this!" he roared in frustration into empty air. "Get over the Psycho complex and leave my friends alone!"

"Friends?" Pilot's laughed echoed against the golden walls. "You really do live in a world of your own, don't you? Don't you understand yet?"

"What the frell are you on about now?" John spat out the words bitterly.

"The truth." Pilot's reply was pointed. "You cannot see it, can you? I suppose I will have to be the one to break to you – I usually am." John sensed icy smile that lay behind the words. "You have no friends on this ship, human; merely people who tolerate you."

John shook his head. "That's not true. It was once, but it isn't now."

"Is that what you think?" There was a mocking, singsong quality to Pilot's voice. "Poor little Crichton, lost in space. Looking for allies and finding only pity." He laughed again. "You really are a joke – a bad joke but a joke nonetheless. And everybody shares it but you."

That was it. John felt something inside himself snap. Dammit, why the Hezmana should he be forced to just stand here and have his life, both physical and mental, assassinated by a being who hadn't left the same room for three years? After all he had done to help that ungrateful bastard! This was the limit! He was John Crichton and he was not going to take this anymore!

"Just who the Hell do you think you are?" he shouted at the top of his lungs, drowning Pilot's mockery with a surging wave of fury. "I don't deserve this – none of us do! We have done everything we could to help you and Moya, to protect you to keep you, her and her kid safe and this is how you repay us? By torturing us to death? You have got be able to see that there is something wrong with this picture! You are sick – and I'm not just taking about your taste in death here, Pilot! Can't you see it? Whatever happened on Kaalene is happening here – there is something in your head making you act all screwy and it may feel good now, but trust me you will regret this in the morning!"

The following silence dripped against John's skull as he fought to get his breath back. 

And waited.

"You think there is something wrong with me?"

The tone had changed. John realised it instantly. The mockery, the smoothness, the nasty, spiteful little undertone, all had gone. Pilot sounded confused, bewildered and slightly frightened. It was almost….normal.

He felt a sudden hope spring within his heart. Had he got through to the real Pilot?

"Yeah, I do." This time he moderated his tone to gentle concern. "I think something from Kaalene got into Moya's systems and into you. You must be able to see that you aren't acting like yourself. If you just stop this, just let us out, let us help, we can have you back to the way you were and everything can go back to normal. Please."

There was a long hesitation before Pilot spoke again. " But John," he whispered softly. "Before you can help me, there is something I need to know…."

"What?" John took a step towards the clamshell, his expression anxious.

"Crichton…."

"What?!?"

"How gullible are you?"

Pilot's sudden laughter echoed around the chamber. The hope with John withered and died like a flower in the frost. That _bastard_…. 

"Oh _Crichton_!" Pilot's voice rang out in a melodramatic mockery of desperation. "Help me, Crichton! I'm bad, I'm evil! I'm not obeying your every stupid order! There must be something _terribly _wrong!"

John glared at the floor. "Why don't you just shut up and kill me? I know you want to despite the fact I've done nothing to deserve this…"

"_Nothing_?" The playfulness was instantly gone leaving only rage in its place; John's head snapped up at once at the sudden cold that swept the room. "_Nothing_? You call bringing down the wrath of first Captain Crais and then Scorpius on us nothing? You call crashing Moya on a planet and talking of abandoning her pregnant nothing? You call letting Crais steal her son nothing? Is nothing forcing me to expose parts of my life that _no one_ had a right to know of? Is nothing what is happening to Moya now? Is all this _nothing_?"

John shook his head. "Most of that was not my fault. I never wanted any of it."

"I know that." Pilot's voice was soft. "But you can't help it, Crichton. You drag disaster after disaster around the galaxy behind you, leaving an oblivious trail of destroyed lives and ruined places as your fingerprints. You're a jinx, a pariah, and a harbinger of unintended doom. You're a nuisance, Crichton, a hindrance. The universe will be a better place without you." His voice was awash with slow satisfaction. "I see this less as murder, more a mercy killing on behalf of all those fortunate souls who haven't met you yet. Goodbye, John Crichton. And take heart in the fact that with your death, space will be a safer place."

"Pilot!" John leapt up but he already knew that the navigator was gone. He heard the whirr of wheels beneath him and looked down to face his end.

The DRDs had vanished. Every one.

What the….

The sudden clanking made him jump; startled he glanced around but the noise seemed to have come from every direction. It was only when his eye caught on the suddenly solid face of what had a moment ago been a latticed grate that John realised what was going on.

A low hiss filled his ears.

Oh frell.

Pilot had sealed the maintenance bay.

And now he was venting the atmosphere.

*************************

Light. 

Sound. 

Colour.

Pain.

One by one they returned to her, filled her senses and span in her brain. Light that seared her slowly rising eyes; the gentle hums and clicks that battered at her ears against silence beyond; colours, red, blue, black, purple, that mixed together in her head with the multihued confusion of unconsciousness. And pain – so much pain that tore into her skull like a frag cannon barrage.

What the frell was happening to her?

Reluctantly the world swam into focus – she became aware of herself once more. She stared down at the flashing, hypnotic lights against which her face was pressed, mingled with uncomfortably warm lap of scarlet fluid that rippled against her face; it was a moment before she realised that the liquid pooled beneath her was her blood. Feeling flowed back through bruised and aching limbs; she could feel her hands pressed into the small of her back, bound roughly into place by the same sticky substance that had been used to restrain when she had first joined this unlikely vessel. A quick twitch of her ankles revealed that they too were similarly restrained and had been sealed, it seemed, to a convenient bulkhead by an obliging DRD. Her head, or what was left of it after three forceful blows against a solid support, was screaming over the surface with the raw pain of her wounds, and beneath the surface with the slow throb she had endured for several solar days already.

She felt like death.

A pair of golden eyes burned against her tender skin. Slowly, painfully she raised her head.

Pilot smiled.

"Aeryn Sun," he said softly. "Welcome back to the world of the living. It will be a brief visit, but I will certainly do my best to make it memorable."

"Pilot." She moved her lips, despite the effort and shooting waves of discomfort it caused her. "Why?"

The navigator rolled his eyes and returned his attention to the flashing array of lights laid out before him. "I've answered that question enough times for one day."

The implication behind his words was obvious. "Where are the others?" the Sebacean gasped.

"Dying." Pilot spoke the word softly. "One by one, slowly but surely. And soon you will join them."

Aeryn's head was a tangled weave of flashing lights and bursting agony that pushed her thoughts coldly to one side, but nonetheless, she knew instinctively that she could not give in to her pain. Ignoring the protests of her muscles, she forced herself to roll onto her side and, manoeuvring with her elbows as best she could, she hauled herself into a sitting position. Blood trickled down her damaged face and dripped against her shoulder, staining the skin with crimson. She paid it no heed, fixing her bloodshot icy eyes on the form of Moya's navigator.

He was watching her. "Look at the state of you," he commented dryly. "It will almost be a kindness when I put you out of your misery."

Aeryn stared at him. There was something about the self-satisfied expression on his face, about the curl of his lip and the gleam in his eye that told her that she was not the only one in peril aboard Moya.

"What have you done?" she murmured softly.

He smiled again, not pleasantly. "Direct and to the point. How very like a peacekeeper." His golden flame eyes clashed with the glacial ice of hers. "What I have done, Officer Sun is something I should have done a long time ago and that I have dreamed of doing for even longer. I'm making Moya _safe_, freeing her from the scourge, the plague, the infestation of lower life forms I have too long allowed to share her. And then, at last, it will be just the two of us. Pilot and leviathan. Alone. As it should be. As it will be."

The peacekeeper frowned and winced at the pain it caused her. "I take it you aren't talking about letting us off at the next planet."

Pilot's grim, intense little smile was answer enough. "How very perceptive. No. There is too much to owe us for such a light sentence. I intend to squeeze every drop of repayment from you all before I allow you a blessed release." 

Aeryn met his gaze measure for measure. "You don't want to do this, Pilot."

The navigator shook his head in amusement. "Don't I?" he retorted. "I have to say I'm having rather a good time at the moment! Why would I not want to continue?" He leaned forward suddenly, his vast carapace shadowing his features as his eyes flamed. "Tell me, _Officer_ Sun. Explain to me the error of my ways. Talk me out of my diabolical scheme. You know you want to."

Aeryn shook her head, ignoring the little sparks that agonised the movement. "This is wrong, Pilot. And you know it."

His eyes gleamed. "_Why_ is it wrong?"

Aeryn fought to think, fought to concentrate, reason, retort, but her brain, locked in a cycle of chaos, refused to cooperate. "It just is," she managed. 

Pilot watched her intently. "Hypocrite," he drawled softly. "What you mean is; it's wrong when _I _do it but not when it's _you_."

Aeryn blinked painfully. "What?"

"You tortured my predecessor to death and I'm sure she wasn't the only one. And yet when I do the same, you tell me it is wrong. Why? Why is it wrong for me but not for you?"

Aeryn sighed. "You know that I am not that person any more because you are one of the ones who taught me to be different. And even then, when I took a life, I did it because I was ordered to, not out of desire. I killed quickly and cleanly and never out of vindictiveness. That is why we're different. And that is why it's wrong."

Pilot's smile spread slowly across his features once more. "So you think it is better to kill on behalf of someone else than out of your own legitimate desire? You think that killing because of the vindictiveness of others rather than because you consider it right and just is a better way to live?" He shook his head.  "You call that right?"

Aeryn fought back the emotion and the searing heat that rampaged through her skull. "I was never vindictive," she repeated but the words seemed small, insignificant.

Pilot laughed. "More fool you. It adds an element of enjoyment that would otherwise be lacking. At least I'm no mindless assassin. I act in Moya's best interests."

Aeryn smiled coldly. "Most of my peacekeeper commanders told us our actions were in the best interests of someone – usually themselves. It's just a fine excuse to kill without taking responsibility for it." She gazed at him levelly. "Will Moya take responsibility for this? Will you place those lives on her conscience?"

Pilot's expression was like sculpted ice. "She'll be pleased."

"Will she? You've told us often enough that a leviathan needs a crew."

"I was a fool then."

"And who will you turn to?" Adrenalin pumped strength into Aeryn's bones, dulling the pain to a silent roar. She sat up straight, her shoulders braced, her head raised defiantly as she gazed down at her glaring captor. "Who will help with repairs and keep you company? Who will negotiate for supplies and arrange their transport? Who will shield you from the tough realities of living in this part of space? You can't cope with the real world, Pilot, because you've never had to live in it. I know you. You'll be scammed, invaded and captured within a quarter cycle!" Her expression hardened. "I believe what I see not what I'm told. And I see that you need us to survive whether you like it or not. To kill us all is suicide, for you and for Moya. Would you condemn her to death along with yourself?" Her eyes glistened – she felt a sudden power, a dominance, an all-imposing, all-consuming fire that burnt into her soul. She was the master here. She had the power. She had never felt so truly _her_.

"I should have just let you die," she whispered, her words shimmering in glacial darkness. "You were right. Moya would be better off without you."

The blow was stunning. Aeryn's head slammed against the console in an explosion of pain – the sense of power fled from her consciousness like prey in flight. Pilot's claw grasped her throat, shoving her back as she tried to rise – blood filled her mouth and trickled down her chin. She struggled weakly, futilely against the greater strength of the enraged navigator but he had already pinned her helplessly in place. His amber eyes filled her vision as he loomed over her, his features tight with fury.

"

How _dare_ you?" The razor words were ripe with venom, spat out one by one at his prey as though to stab her through with each and every one of them. "You who slaughtered Moya's first Pilot in this very room and let me convince myself that it was all my fault! You deceived me into believing you were something more than a black-hearted soulless peacekeeper and worse, you deceived Moya too! We trusted you. And for that you will be punished."

Aeryn's eyes raised towards the navigator – despite the firm press of the panel against her cheek and the bruising grip of Pilot's claw at her throat, she felt no fear, no anger, nothing but a strange sense of detachment.

"You blame for your bad judgement?" she rasped. Her eyes met his in a blaze of fire and ice that ignited with terrible force. "I'm not afraid of you." 

His eyes flared. "You should be. I'm not your quiet, obedient little servant any more. I've broken free. For the first time in my life I am truly _myself_."

Aeryn would have shaken her head if only it had been possible to move it. "I _know_ you, Pilot," she whispered defiantly. "I know you better than you know yourself. No matter what you seem to think, this _isn't_ you."

His eyes froze upon her. "This isn't me?" he breathed incredulously. "And on what do you base that? A few fleeting talks with a stupid, pathetic creature who didn't know his own mind well enough to act on it? Well, he is gone now and he isn't coming back. Get used to it."

"That's not true." Aeryn's voice was almost inaudible but somehow she forced out the words. 

"And how would you know?" Pilot's voice was laced with acidic bitterness. "You don't know me, any of you! The only time you ever speak with me is when you need me for something! All I am to you people is a servicer, a slave, an organic component to a system designed to do your bidding and mindlessly obey your commands! I _lost_ me, the real me the moment I was bonded to this ship, forced and bullied by the peacekeepers, in constant agony because of _your_ kinds impatience! They _destroyed _me, Aeryn! _You_ destroyed me! So how can you _possibly_ claim to have the _slightest _idea who I am?"

The silence spread in a growing ripple, filling the chamber from end to end with it's imposing solitude. Ice and fire fought a war and reached a solid stalemate.

And then she saw.

She had known all along. She had felt it. She had shared it. That moment, that instant of power before she had pushed him too far – there lay the answer, the truth, the secret, the complete understanding of where she was and what she had to do. The incident in the cargo bay, the _true _incident, not a trifling little accident but what had been revealed before, the depths she had tapped, the promise uncovered, that was all she needed. His words had given her the answer to a question she had forgotten had even been asked.

Suddenly it all became staggering clear.

She knew what she had to do.

"I know who you are, Pilot," she said softly. "And I know who I am. So why don't we find a way to make it work for all of us?"

**************************

  Light.

Could it be?

So this was death. Zhaan had long given up trying to fight; her body lay slumped, motionless, the life draining from her fading shell like a shadow into darkness behind her falling eyes. But now…

Light.

She had come. She had come.

Death held no fear for Pa'u Zotah Zhaan. At last she would feel the touch of her Goddess. At last she would feel her embrace.

Light burned against her eyelids. A gentle voice called, echoed in her mind.

_ I have come to help you._

She opened her eyes.

Two coal black oblivions gazed back at her from within a glowing form. A palm of lightning was held outstretched towards her.

Fingers of gold closed around her hand.

END OF PART FIVE.

************************


	6. Ripples in the Air

Breaking Point - Part Six.

By Jess Pallas.

Disclaimer; I don't own Farscape or any of its characters. Please don't sue me!

Feedback; Go on then! E-mail me at jesspallas@hotmail.com

Archiving; If you like it, take it. But please, let me know first.

Rating:  PG through PG –13 - some bits are rather grim. Contains scenes of violence and fairly mild gore. Be warned.

Category; Drama, Action.

Spoilers; TWWW, DNAMS, TGAS, IET, CDM.

Timeframe; Midway through S2 probably after LATP. I can't be specific because I'm not sure myself!

Summary: The crew discover a dead leviathan whose Pilot and crew have been brutally murdered. But who was responsible – and could the same fate be about to befall Moya?

Copyright 12-06-2002.

This wasn't good.

Sparkling fairy lights danced like wayward stars in front of the eyes of John Crichton. His throat was screaming raw – no wonder since the unyielding advance of vacuum was all but pulling his lungs up through his throat – and his eyes felt on the verge of exploding with spectacular ocular unpleasantness all over the front of his face. He lay, slumped in an unruly heap against the side of the hanger door, his hands bleeding still from his scraping efforts to escape the encroaching invisible death that sought to consume him. Once before he had survived it, once before he had drifted unprotected in the endless grasp of space but somehow stayed alive. 

But this time, space would have it's own back.

His mind was in turmoil. His thoughts tumbled and collided with hollow force – his consciousness was screaming at his body to get up, to keep trying, not to let Psycho Pilot and his neurotic deadly obsession win the battle. But although the will was there the strength was not – his flesh, already damaged and worn from its earlier fight for freedom in low oxygen, had given up, surrendered and fallen helplessly.  He was dying and there was nothing left that he could do to prevent it.

So this was it for John Crichton, astronaut, master of the universe. He would never find the secret of the wormhole, never again see Earth with it's bright rivers and dark forests, it's silver cities and golden sunsets, it's fast cars, Superbowl, Budweiser and Pizza. He would never see DK, never tell him that their crazy theory had been a success after all. He would never be able to make his father proud of his achievements. 

He would never say goodbye.

And his friends. Despite Pilot's vindictive words, John still knew that they were his friends – and now they were all most likely dead. Big D, Blue, Pip, hell even Sparky – he would miss them all, if it were possible to miss them in the dark unknown that lay scant yards away. They didn't deserve this any more than he did, no matter what Pilot said. Nobody deserved this. And now they were dead and he would never see them again.

He would never see Aeryn again.

Black darkness yawned. He felt his eyelids flutter closed over silver speckled eyes.

He would never see….

Aeryn…..

He could see her, a shadow in his minds eye, waiting. Her hand reached out, a beckoning call, and closed around his arm…

He braced to release his soul…

And felt an abrupt jerk as the grip on his arm grasped firm from a ghostly touch, to a distant solid pull. From faraway, he heard voices, distant calls in a different, almost abandoned direction. Words, familiar sounds and inflections cut like fire across his brain as cold, damp fingers struck sharp against his cheek.

"This is not a good time to sleep, old man!"

Chiana?

His eyes flickered. Through a silver haze, he caught a dashing glimpse of a grey and white figure against a backdrop of gold. He could feel the slow drag of solid floor beneath his unresponsive body and the real, tight hold of hands, one, two, three, four….

Four?

"Frell, he's heavy! Why couldn't you have got D'Argo to do this?"

"Because D'Argo is hurt! Now stop complaining and hurry up! Pilot may realise we've gone at any microt and we aren't safe away from Kir!"

And Zhaan? But surely Zhaan was… and Chiana too for that matter. Was he hallucinating? And what the frell was a kir? 

He had to concentrate, to try and breath. Even as the thought passed through his mind, John realised that the pressure on his lungs was gone – the air felt thick, warm, breathable. His surroundings were tighter, more invasive, no longer the cavernous maintenance bay but the tight crawl (or in his case, drag) of one of Moya's intricate system of ventilation shafts. The darkness began to recede – he could feel himself struggling back towards consciousness.

He started to open his eyes…

"Chiana, look out!"

"I can't hold him!"

"Watch out for his head!"

Pain richoted through Crichton's skull – all at once the darkness roared victorious. As he faded into unconsciousness once more, a small voice, that of Chiana, followed him down.

"Oops," it said.

***************************

"Look, I'm sorry, okay? If he wasn't so frelling heavy, I'd never have dropped him!"

The first voice to greet John Crichton as he swam his way back to the land of the living was ironically the very one that had banished him from it in the first place. He could feel a cool, damp cloth sliding gently across his aching brow – his lungs throbbed and his eyes itched incessantly but he seemed to be mostly intact. There was a warmth to his surroundings, and a lightness gleamed like a beacon against his eyelids. Around him, he could feel movement. His body felt detached from his mind and fairly useless. He groaned.

"John?" The voice was Zhaan's, a calm clear calling in the midst of pounding mental turmoil. "John, can you hear me?"

John spoke the first thought that came to his mind. "Am I dead?" he rasped painfully. "Are you?"

He sensed the Delvian's smile. "No, John. You are very much alive. As are we all. " Her voice shivered slightly as she softly added. "Just."

"All?" John fought to open his eyes but the soft film of his eyelids stubbornly refused to budge. "But Pilot… he showed me… D'Argo and the DRDs, Sparky under his thronesled, Chiana drowning! Zhaan, you were choking to death! I saw you guys dying!"

"Dying isn't dead." The low growl was unmistakably D'Argo's but there was a fragile note to the Luxan's tone that implied he had suffered badly.  "Pilot should have finished us whilst he had the chance!"

"I for one am glad he didn't!" The reply was unmistakable Rygel, but once again there was a quiet, almost haunted note behind the arrogant crow of the little Dominar. "He must have been distracted by cutting chunks out of…"

"Shhh! Rygel!" But Zhaan's admonishment came too late – John's mind had already made the leap to Rygel's verbal destination.

"Where's Aeryn?" he whispered as a hollow void opened within his chest and threatened to suck his heart out whole. Had it been the real Aeryn calling him instead of a hallucination? Oh God…..

"John…"

"Zhaan, where is she?" There was a force behind the human's words that could not be denied. He heard the Delvian sigh as he battled once again with his reluctant eyes.

"We don't know," she replied softly, regretfully. "But we think she is still in Pilot's chamber – if she is still alive."

"Then we have no time to lose." John pushed his wildly protesting body up onto its elbows as at long, long last he gained control of his eyes. They opened blurrily onto a blaze of brightness and shuffled until focus, unaware for a brief, blissful instant of exactly what they were seeing. "We have to…_Holy Shit!_"

From extreme reluctance, John's body powered all at once into overdrive. The human scrabbled backwards as though jet propelled, slamming against the low, narrow wall with surprising force as he scrambled in search of a blow, a weapon, something, anything he could use to defend himself against the glowing apparition that stared at him with an expression rather akin to surprise from over the shoulder of Pa'u Zotah Zhaan.

" Zhaan, get the Hell away from there now!" John was in no mood for the ecumenicalism of the Delvian. "That thing tried to kill us and it's probably what messed with Moya and Pilot!" His eyes whipped sideways searching for support, fixing upon the blood-splattered form of D'Argo.

"D'Argo, do something!" he exclaimed. "For God sakes, will you nuke the critter?"

The Luxan regarded him through tired but determined eyes. "That would be fatal," he commented. "John, calm down, you are being ridiculous. Kir is no threat."

John's adrenalin rush subsided a little – he paused, finally taking a moment to glance around at his companions. D'Argo, slumped against the wall beside him, was a mass of wounded sores inadequately concealed beneath the tattered remnants of his robe. Beyond him, Rygel was a hunched figure, seeming smaller even than usual, his skin and clothes stained a dark purple-black, the odour rising from him more than slightly offensive and creating an invisible exclusion zone which his companions seemed unwilling to cross. At a respectable distance beyond him sat Chiana, a bedraggled mass of loose hair and limbs, coated into strange, sticky patterns by drying amnexus fluid. And in front of John, shadowed by the impressive living lightshow that had so startled the human was Zhaan, a vision in blue, a slight tremble to her fingers and deep down within her eyes the only indications that she too had been subject to torture. All looked worn, battered, saddened and haunted by their various ordeals. But despite the looming presence of the energy being, not one of them looked worried. If anything, they seemed almost glad to have it there.

John took several deep breaths, risking a glance at the energy being. It was still watching him, or at least it seemed to be from within the two disconcerting black nothings that made up what appeared to be eyes. It was a mass of pulsating energy, held together in a loosely humanoid form by forces that John was in no state to comprehend. How could pure light, pure energy be alive? It made no real sense to John – but then it was no stranger than much else he had encountered in the uncharted territories. After all, two years ago, the idea of a walking plant and a living ship would probably have left him hysterical.

He tried to relax – not easy when every muscle in his body was taut to breaking point.

"Okay, Zhaan," he said softly. "What the Hell's going on? Who's Kir?"

"This is Kir." The Delvian nodded to the energy being beside her, who acknowledged the gesture with on of his own. "He is a radiavore – a consumer of energy. He came to Moya by occupying the energy space left in Aeryn's pulse pistol the moment after she discharged it and once here, he saved my life; and by extension, all of you."

John blinked. "He what?"

Zhaan smiled softly. "He saved our lives John. When I was trapped and dying on command, I heard a gentle voice speak in my head. When I opened my eyes, Kir was standing over me. The power of his light gave me the energy to come to my feet and escape into a vent he had opened for me. Once free, he led me to each of you. He helped me breach the vent to drain Chiana's prison and his bursts of light blinded the DRDs that threatened Rygel and D'Argo. And then he protected them whilst Chiana and I rescued you." The Delvian paused, a regret flitting past her eyes. "But we could not get to Aeryn."

The energy being – Kir – cocked his head and leaned closer. Abruptly a wash of pain surged across John's forehead – even as he winced, he caught flickers of discomfort passing over the faces of Chiana, Rygel and D'Argo as well. But Zhaan simply nodded. 

"I know that, Kir," she said. "We do not hold you to blame. It was too much to expect."

John pulled himself into the closest approximation he could achieve to an upright position.

"Hold it, Blue," he exclaimed. "Did he just say something?"

Zhaan smiled. "Yes, he did."

"Then how come you heard words but I got head pain?"

"Because your mind is not designed to receive words made of light." Zhaan smiled softly. "To animal-based life-forms, Kir's speech is no more than a short, intense burst of harmless but uncomfortable radiation. But to a plant-based species, who also happens to have some psychic ability…" The Delvian smiled. "I understand him perfectly."

"Okay," John sighed as the pulse in his head subsided. "In that case, maybe you could ask him why he's being do damn helpful now when a couple of days ago, he attacked us in Kaalene's corridor?"

Zhaan tilted her head. "He didn't attack you John. He was trying to talk to you. He'd been shadowing you for a while through the ventilation system, testing each of you in turn to see if you were compatible with his mode of communication. When he was unable to reach any of you, he decided to come into the open and try visual communication instead. He gave you plenty of warning of his presence so he would not startle you and attempted to reach you by changing his energy flux and extending his hands. Unfortunately you interpreted his gesture as hostile and attacked." She sighed. "Luckily he was quick thinking enough to stow away in Aeryn's pistol in the hope that, on reaching our ship, someone there could be made to understand before it was too late." She smiled. "Fortunately for us all, he found me just in time."

John was watching Kir through narrowed eyes. The disturbing oblivion stared right back. The human blinked first and turned back to Zhaan.

"Does he know what's causing all this?" he asked, as he rubbed a weary hand across his forehead.

Zhaan nodded. "Tentrite."

John stared. "Ten-what? Who the frell's that? Another one of those radio-guys?"

"No John," Zhaan was displaying formidable patience. "Tentrite is the name of the glowing rocks that D'Argo found aboard Kaalene. According to Kir, it is a type of crystalline stone with a natural radiating energy that is found exclusively in this region. It is used as a power source by beings throughout this quadrant. It is quite rare and extremely valuable – a powerful draw for miners. Discovering a seam of tentrite as rich and pure as the one found on Dar'scay - lat would have guaranteed a life of luxury for Captain Brax and his crew." She sighed. "If only they had been able to complete the operation before their Pilot turned on them."

John nodded at Kir, continuing to address his questions to Zhaan despite the radiavore's presence. For some reason, the thought of addressing those abyss-like eyes made him deeply uncomfortable. "How does he know all this?"

Zhaan too had noticed the human's aversion but she chose not to comment on it. "Kir had been living aboard Kaalene in secret for almost a quarter cycle prior to his death, listening to the crew and getting to know them. He knew more about most of them than their shipmates."

Chiana chipped in, wiping a solid lock of hair out of her face. "Why was he there? And why in secret?"

"Kir's tribe of radiavores lived exclusively on the tentrite of Dar'scay-lat," Zhaan explained, after a brief consultation that made the heads of her companions burn. "When the Wrardi came and mined the seam, their food became more and more scarce. Finally, he and his family had no choice but to stow away in the mining tools and sneak aboard the ship before they starved to death. But even on a ship of Kaalene's size, the arrival of almost twenty glowing radiavores consuming their livelihood could not go unnoticed forever, even though their presence was shielded from detection by ambient radiation. The miners began to notice that whole cases of raw tentrite were loosing potency overnight, making it useless for sale and cutting into their profits. Eventually, Kir's kind were exposed as the culprits."

"The dull rocks we found," D'Argo intervened.  "Those were ones Kir's people had consumed?"

Zhaan nodded. "Very good, D'Argo. The miners were furious. They turned on the radiavores and killed or captured them wherever they could. Finally, Kir was last to remain undiscovered."

John was watching the energy being carefully. "Didn't that make him angry? The fact that they killed his people, I mean."

"They were just protecting their families, John, just as he had been." Zhaan glanced at Kir, who almost seemed to give a sparkling shrug. "Remember he had been watching them, got to know them. He knew there was no malice behind it. Many of his kind tried to speak with them, but to no avail. He knows that if they had just been able to communicate, they would have been able to compromise. The Wrardi miners were reasonable men fighting to escape a life of drudgery for their families and themselves. Whole towns would have been fed for life by the profit from this seam." Her expression wavered slightly. "Besides," she added softly. "The miners had been in close proximity to the tentrite for a long time. It was having a distinct effect on them even prior to the events that led to Kaalene's Pilot turning. They would not have been so ruthless to his people had their minds not already been influenced to a degree by the telepathic effect of the radiation."

John was instantly electrified, his attention snatched, focussed and held by the meaning beneath Zhaan's words. His discomfort was instantly forgotten – half-risen as far as the overhanging gold of the low vent's ceiling would allow, he turned on Kir at once.

"Telepathic radiation?" he exclaimed, his heart filled with a sudden hope. Was that the answer? If there was a reason, maybe, just maybe, there was a cure! "Is that what's behind all this? Is that what's made Pilot go psycho?"

Zhaan glanced at the radiavore. John winced as the Delvian listened to his answer, her eyes flickering slightly as she took in his thoughts. After what seemed an eternity of throbbing temples, the Delvian nodded and turned back to her companions.

"Tentrite has been a way of life in these parts for many thousands of cycles." The words came softly, slowly. "It is a stable, long-lasting fuel that emits disproportionate amounts of energy and the inhabitants of this region rely on it to power their cities and their ships. Wars have been fought for centuries over a single seam. They rely upon it to survive. It is the cog by which their civilisations turn. It is their lifeblood."

She sighed deeply. "But it has its price and like most, this price was only discovered when it was too late. Tentrite is a stimulant. A short exposure in its raw form is harmless – it causes mild headaches, some irritability perhaps. But a more long term exposure – such as the six cycles that these miners have spent working on this seam – can ingrain these into the psyche, causing a mild disagreement to flare into a blazing row, a gentle push into a violent conflict. To mitigate this effect in both miners and those using the energy, the tentrite is harnessed into special protective spheres, which link together to create an energy lattice. This procedure was performed on site, to protect those who carried the spheres for sale. Once enclosed, the tentrite is safe to use and completely harmless; it is only raw tentrite that is dangerous - or at least so they thought."

Zhaan glanced at Kir; the energy being nodded and the priestess moved on. "The miners knew all about this effect and did their best to control it, to avoid fighting with each other – they even took inoculations of sedatives, not that they had much effect other than as a placebo. When aggression did manifest itself, they mostly took it out on Kir's people and in their mining operation. They took regular breaks away from the seam, ferrying their wares back to Wrardian for sale. And this time, Brax had even taken an added precaution. He had hired a leviathan and her Pilot instead using a mining barge, so as to have a constant, steady, reliable hand at the wheel if any of the crew should be too heavily influenced. It was well know amongst the mining community that, apart from some doziness on the part of the ship, leviathans and Pilots were impervious to the influence of tentrite."

"_What_?" John's incredulous voice broke into Zhaan's gentle narrative. "Impervious? Does Pilot _seem_ impervious to you? Hell, it would be hard to get _more_ pervious than he is right now!"

Zhaan raised a tolerant hand. "I'm getting to that, John. Let me finish."

The human sighed and shrugged, settling back into a more relaxed posture. 

"Shoot," he gestured with improbable nonchalance.

With a small smile, the Delvian continued. "That was the belief," she told them. "Kir says that the crew trusted their Pilot implicitly. He was their safeguard, their voice of sanity. They relied on him completely. But then it all went wrong. There was turbulent storm that swept through the region – Kaalene was knocked off his orbit and forced to take shelter. Much of the mining equipment was damaged and the sphere lattice that they used to power their mining tools was knocked out of alignment and twisted beyond repair. Brax was concerned the turbulence might have damaged the spheres in storage; he insisted that new ones be forged as quickly as possible on the only piece of machinery still in working order – their sphere forger. Unfortunately their engineer did not take the time to check the machine for damage first."

Zhaan paused, gazing silently at the golden curves overhead, her mind clearly pondering the unintentional foolishness of beings now dead. "The spheres they forged were faulty – their harmonics were out of alignment with the frequency of the tentrite radiation. But they were in too much of a hurry to even test them – the spheres were simply latticed and activated." She shook her head. "They never knew what they had done. Only Kir knew – he could feel the wrongness in the air the moment the lattice was woven – but he had no way to tell them. Because his species is tentrite based, his attempts to communicate had much the same effect on the miners as the radiation – causing a sharp headache and irrational anger. It was hardly a fit state in which to be receptive or patient with a being that threatened your livelihood. After several narrow escapes, Kir was forced to give in and hide himself away."

Behind the Delvian, Kir's dark eyes were fixed upon the ground. A strange kind of sadness seemed to ripple from him, dancing around the crew of Moya like a softly flowing breeze. The air tasted of sorrow and of deep regret.

"The Pilot changed almost at once," Zhaan's eyes were fixed on Kir – they seemed to reach out in comfort but proved ineffective in the end. "He became short with the Wrardi, brusque and bad tempered, snapping out orders instead of making requests. He began to find fault with everything the crew attempted – their repairs were ineffectual, the damage to Kaalene all their fault. Finally, Brax's engineer went to talk to him – the two had always got along well. No one knows what passed between them, but the engineer was never seen again – Kir has found what he believes are his remains at the foot of the Pilot's chamber. That was when the Pilot began to hunt down the crew."

"Sounds familiar." John laid his head back against the bulkhead with a sigh. "But what caused it?"

"The spheres." There was a tremulous note to Chiana's voice, a kind of sick, disbelieving concern that John wasn't quite able to place. Her expression was wide-eyed and there was the barest hint of guilt tingeing the edges of her features. Oddly enough, Rygel had adopted a very similar look. "It was those farbot spheres, wasn't it?"

Zhaan smiled. "Very good Chiana. Because of the fault in the forging of the spheres, the protective casing was not having the effect it was supposed to. Instead of holding in the damaging radiation, it amplified on a sharper wavelength. It caused irritation amongst the crew, but the general bad feeling surrounding the effects of the storm masked the impact. Its effect on the Pilot was more devastating."

But John was shaking his head. "But why just him? Why was he so badly affected when he never had been before?"

"Pilots have excellent self control, John" Zhaan replied. "They were not immune to the effect of the radiation as the Wrardi believed – their multi-tasking abilities simply allowed them to isolate the bad feelings and put them to one side. But this new radiation was different, stronger, more invasive and tuned to a frequency that vibrated against the skin of the leviathan and funnelled its impact towards the centre of the ship – the Pilot's chamber. The Pilot could no longer escape it."

Zhaan saw the question forming on the human's lips before it spun into being and forestalled it with a raise of her hand. "Imagine your thoughts, John," she whispered softly, her eyes an azure gleam against the shining glow of Kir. "You thoughts as they were on Kaalene. Think of your anger, you irritability, your irrational desire to lash out. Then imagine you can hold a thousand thoughts at once and that what you have felt is multiplied a thousand fold. And then imagine the size of your rage; and what it would cause you to do to those around you. Then you would be Pilot as he is now." 

Zhaan took a deep breath. "It is bad enough for a normal being, one who has only to cope with the rage within one line of thought. Pilot's mind can hold a thousand thoughts at once, amplifying the effect from simple irritation to downright psychosis. The very skill in multitasking that protected his kind until now has turned him instead to violence. And the same frequency of radiation acts as a sedative to leviathans – Moya has been lulled into drowsy non-awareness just as Kaalene was, leaving Pilot with free reign to act in whatever way he sees fit. And with his mind in the state it must be in now, is it any wonder he is trying to kill us?"

There was a long, heavy silence. Looks were exchanged, quick, furtive glances between Chiana and Rygel and long, slow queries between John, Zhaan and D'Argo.

It was John who said what at least three of those present had been thinking.

"This is all very interesting," he said softly. "But also kinda pointless. It can't be those spheres affecting Pilot; we're well out of range of Kaalene and Moya doesn't have any on board! There is no way that that the disco spheres could be doing this now unless his mind's been screwed over so badly that there's no going back!"

Zhaan glanced over her shoulder at Kir. As John braced himself against his throbbing skull, he saw her eyes suddenly widen and flicker with shock. 

"John, Kir says you are mistaken." There was hushed horror in the Delvian's voice. "We _do_ have spheres aboard – a crate full from the faulty batch. They are responsible for Pilot's deterioration."

John pushed himself to vertical with a frown. "But how the Hell is that…"

His voice trailed off as a distant, half forgotten memory surged into his consciousness. Aeryn, lying half stunned and disgruntled after her accident in the maintenance bay, a throwaway remark that had created a suspicion he had later discarded without considering it's implications…. "_Frelling Chiana… She was unloading something from the pod – Rygel's she claimed – but I think she may have salvaged something from Kaalene…" _  

Slowly, darkly, and with an expression that shimmered with flashes of a death even grimmer than Pilot could devise, John turned his gaze onto the nervous forms of the sticky Nebari and the stinking Hynerian.

Chiana broke first. "Don't look at me!" she exclaimed, her dark eyes wide in her monochrome face. "It was all Rygel's idea! I didn't even want to get involved!"

"You lying little trelk!" Rygel drew himself up to the most impressive height he could attain. "You said if I didn't cut you half the profits, you'd go into business by yourself!"

"I was trying to scare you! It was your plan, you and your frelling spheres! Make our fortune, you said! You never said nothing about risking our lives!"

"How was I supposed to…"

"Shut up!"

John's abrupt exclamation brought instant silence. The human's expression rivalled even D'Argo's for sheer deathliness, the cold eyes, the solid line of his mouth, the way every feature twanged with implications of a much reduced life expectancy if not obeyed to the letter.

A half smile flickered around his mouth. There was no humour in it.

"I don't care whose idea it was," he drawled slowly, dragging each word across his tongue as though racking it. "I only care that it's happened. I am not having a good day. I've been insulted, watched my friends being tortured, nearly suffocated and dropped on my head. A trusted friend has turned psychotic and he has Aeryn in his grasp. And now I find I owe this to the pair of you." 

His gaze locked on the two. Both shrunk back instinctively. Pilot may have been the great danger lurking beyond, but here and now, John in an icy temper was a far greater risk. "I just want this clearly understood. I am _not_ going to let Pilot kill you two. I'm not going to even let him get _close_. You know why?" 

Both shook their heads. John leaned forward with a flash of white teeth. "Because you two are _mine_. And when this is all over, _I _am going to be the one to kill you both. Horribly. But for now, we have more pressing matters to deal with."

Abruptly, he turned to Kir. "So what happened?" he asked sharply.

The radiavore held another brief conference with Zhaan. The Delvian nodded and turned to the others. "Kir saw Chiana and Rygel bring the crate aboard from the transport pod. He recognised at once that it was from the faulty batch and tried to warn them. He thought he was almost getting through to Chiana but she didn't grasp his words, only the gist of his emotions – and she didn't recognise the warning to act on it. She and Rygel argued and left the spheres unattended in an ion backwash chamber. When Chiana hurled down the key, it activated – the spheres formed a lattice and began to vibrate."

D'Argo glanced at the energy being suspiciously. "Why didn't _he_ switch it off?"

Zhaan sighed. "This particular wavelength of radiation is hazardous to his species. When he tried to get close, it disrupted his energy matrix and almost knocked him unconscious. He managed to struggle to a distant corner of the ship but he collapsed. By the time he regained full consciousness, it was too late; Pilot had turned. So he came in search of the last crewmember he had been unable to test – me."

"Can we go near them safely?" John inquired at once, addressing the energy being directly. His earlier discomfort had been forgotten in favour of getting down to business. Kir regarded the human briefly and nodded. John shrugged. "So that's it. We get down to the backwash chamber and…"

A burst of head pain interrupted him. "No, John," Zhaan exclaimed. "We cannot just deactivate the spheres. That would be extremely dangerous to us all."

John frowned. "But he just…"

Zhaan raised her hand. "We can go near them, yes. But tentrite radiation, especially this wavelength, is addictive. To simply deactivate the spheres would most like send all of our brains into spasm – or possibly cause them to shut down altogether. And Pilot and Moya would be killed instantly."

D'Argo leaned forward. "Then what can we do?"

"We power the spheres down slowly, over several days. Give our minds time to wean themselves off the radiation. It's the only way."

But John was shaking his head. "Would I be right in thinking that for these several days, Pilot would still be psycho?"

"Until the shutdown is complete, yes."

"Then we don't have time." John scrambled to his knees. "We'd have to hide from him the whole time – I'm amazed he hasn't found us already. And Aeryn is in immediate danger."

John shook his head against the shiver of discomfort that touched his mind. "What did he say?" he asked Zhaan at once, eyes shifting to her face. They froze at once. The Delvian's expression was a mask of sudden horror.

"That can't be…" she whispered.

John didn't like the emotion in the Delvian's eyes. "What?" he exclaimed. "Zhaan, what can't be? What the frell is going on?"

The priestess turned to the human. Her eyes were haunted.

"John," the words were a soft touch against the air. "According to Kir….." She paused and took a breath. "According to Kir, Aeryn is in danger from more than just Pilot. For reasons he does not understand, her mind is also susceptible to the tentrite."

John pulled a face. "Susceptible? What does he mean by susceptible?"

Zhaan sighed. "Susceptible like Pilot's. He sensed it happening earlier today – when she shot at you in the cargo bay. That power surge in the pod was not Pilot's doing; it was Kir. He was trying to break the cycle growing in her mind before it got the better of her and he succeeded – briefly. But now he fears she may be in danger again, especially whilst trapped in such a resonant centre of vibrations as Pilot's chamber."

John was staring at the Delvian. There was fear within his eyes.

"Zhaan, what cycle?" he said softly. "What are you talking about?"

The priestess returned his frightened gaze. "Aeryn has begun to turn, John," she whispered. "And her mind is too fragile to take it. If we do not hurry, she will become as psychotic as Pilot. And then she will die."

********************************

"Are we sure about this plan?"

John sighed deeply, a long drawn out release of breath that portrayed his general weariness with the world with such distinctive feeling.

"Pip." He expelled the word like a gunshot. "We've been through this three times."

Chiana shuffled her position, wrapping her hands around her elbows as she glared at him from beneath a spiky halo of solidifying hair. "No, you went through it – you and D'Argo and Zhaan and even shining boy! Me and Ryge – we didn't get a word in! We didn't even get a say!"

"Right now, you don't deserve a say. So shut up!" John was in no mood to humour the Nebari. He had bigger things to worry about – his survival for one, and Aeryn's for another.

"Oh yeah, like you've never made a mistake! Like you've never frelled up!" Chiana pouted angrily. "This isn't fair! I'm being dragged into a plan that… that I'm not even sure about, a plan I could get killed in and all you can do is…"

"Okay, okay!" Rolling his eyes, John turned to her. It was hard to miss her as they crouched alone together in the constrictive expanse of golden ribbed shaft, gazing uncertainly through the latticed grate as the quiet, empty echo of one of Moya's corridors. "Just keep your frelling voice down! You know we're exposed here without Kir's aura! All it takes it one DRD with good hearing…"

Chiana drew herself up emphatically and stabbed the air with one gloved finger. "See, that's one of the things I don't get! What the frell is that aura thing that Zhaan was going on about anyway?"

John could feel the slow incursion on a migraine against his skull – and this time it wasn't caused by Kir's desire for a conversation. "Oh, for God's sake…" he muttered. "Weren't you listening when Zhaan explained? Kir is made of tentrite energy – the same energy that is saturating the ship and making Pilot nuts. So when Pilot scans the ship, Kir is invisible – just a part of the background noise. That's why Pilot's scans of Kaalene didn't pick him up and why he never detected him on Moya. And he has an aura – a kind of halo of loose energy around him that cloaks anything within a couple of yards. So as long as we stay close to Kir and avoid visual contact with DRDs, Pilot can't detect us either."

"So we're safe when we're near him?"

"Yes."

Chiana's expression flared. "Then why the frell aren't we near him now?"

John returned her gaze with icy impatience. "Because right now, D'Argo needs him more. Besides, we wouldn't make much of a distraction if Pilot couldn't see us."

The Nebari only just remembered to keep her voice down. "Oh, yeah – the distraction. Now, that bit I followed!" she exclaimed. "And, you see, the running out and get shot at part – that's the part I have a problem with! Why the frell do we have to risk our necks whilst D'Argo does the snurch? _I'm_ the frelling snurcher on this ship!"

"Yeah, but can you survive a vacuum long enough to cross an airless maintenance bay, get to Zhaan's apothecary and steal her very specific list of ingredients?" John was getting tired of this. "I don't think so! This is not a difficult plan, Pip! You and me play hey-look-at-me! for the DRDs and keep Pilot busy trying to kill us. D'Argo, protected by Kir, sneaks into the airless maintenance bay, takes the relevant ingredients and meets Zhaan back at the vent junction. Then Blue will brew us up a nice little sleeping potion that Rygel will take down into the lower vent and inject into Pilot's tendrils. Then Pilot zonks out, we rescue Aeryn and wean him and ourselves off the spheres over however many days it takes without him trying to kill us! Then Kir takes the spheres and goes back to Kaalene and we get the Hell out of here. We don't blow up Pilot, we don't shut down Moya, and absolutely nobody is dead! It is a perfect plan! So sit down, shut up and wait!"

During the course of John's outburst, the Nebari had slowly leaned back, moving softly away from the heavily gesticulating human. "Wait for what?" she ventured warily.

John's ears pricked at a sudden, distant whirring. "That," he whispered. Quickly, quietly he grasped Chiana's arm with one hand and abruptly yanked back the grate with the other. "Come on," he breathed, unfolding his cramped body from its restricted crouch as he dropped into the corridor, hauling the unwilling form of his grey companion behind him. The soft whirring noise grew slowly louder as they stood poised, exposed, in the curve of Moya's passageway.

Chiana thrust her face into Crichton's line of site. "That is a DRD!" she hissed.

"Yep." John nodded, attempting to peer past his intrusive companion but she was not to be ignored.

"It'll see us!" she exclaimed, her fingers grasping at John's arm as she sought, with little success to drag him back towards the safety of the vent.

"That's the idea." With a twist of his arm, John pulled himself free of the Nebari and flicked his eyes towards a second grate, set high above his head. A small green face peered down at them, waiting for the alert, the signal, the sign that it was time to begin. With a flicker of a smile, John made a brief gesture with one hand. Rygel nodded once and vanished into darkness. 

There was no going back now.

And the whirring was getting louder. The DRD could be only microts away.

John caught Chiana's arm. "Brace yourself Pip," he murmured. "And try to stick with me." He smiled softly. It was ridiculous. He was about to risk his life, possibly sacrifice it altogether, but all he could think about was how good it felt to be fighting back. 

Two light-bulb eyes stared straight at him.

"Let the games begin," he declared.

The flash of red fire missed his ear by scant inches. Ignoring Chiana's screech, he grasped her arm even harder and hauled her along behind him as the air around them lit up in a firework display to rival any Fourth of July. He could hear nothing but the scream of weapons fire and his own harsh breath, punctuated by the pounding staccato of a heartbeat that echoed through every sinew of his body. Chiana's arm was warm, fleshy dampness in his hand, her face, visible as he dragged her alongside him, a pattern of grey strobed by the harsh red light of the airborne death around them. She looked furious, terrified, determined and peeved all at once, her expression a cocktail of emotion as she ran, just as he did, for her life.

Judging by the sudden thickening of weapons fire in the air, several more DRDs had joined the fray, but John did not dare glance back to find out their numbers. Ahead the corridor branched out in two separate directions, and from the first rode a yellow wave of death – the only time John could recall seeing more DRDs in one place was when he had been ambushed at the start of Moya's pregnancy. Inexplicably though, the second way was clear – veering off, he dragged Chiana in a new direction.

"This way!" he roared, his voice all but inaudible.

"No dren!" was the snapped response. "And I can run by myself!"

With an abrupt twist, his grip on the Nebari was gone and she ran freely at his side, her dark eyes gleaming. Despite himself, John did not bother to re-establish his hold – it was much easier for them both to run without it and he would only have to hope that they would not be separated now.

Gold flashed by on either side – John lost all track of his bearings as one golden corridor merged into another, each blurred and indistinct, made one by the constant invasions of deadly red and the endless beating of his intrusive heart. The original DRDs dropped back a little, left behind by a frantic pace born of sheer adrenalin but there were plenty more to take their place, rumbling out of this or that ubiquitous passage or grate, with eyestalks waving and murder in their gun barrels. At one point, Chiana clutched her arm with a cry, staggering and tumbling towards a fall, but John steadied her quickly and hurried her on, trying to ignore the seep of blue blood trickling down the Nebari's shoulder.

They knew not where they ran. Corridors, vents up and down, tier to tier, side by side, through ion chambers, quarters, cargo bays and storage holds they ran, their motions mechanical, their bodies exhausted, powered by nothing more than desperation and the inability to stop after running so long.

And the DRDs kept coming.

By now John knew. There was only one way this was going to end. He began to wish he had not involved Chiana at all, that he had left the Nebari girl behind to live at least a little longer. She was faltering now, her steps a stagger, her breath a rasp, her face pale and weakened through loss of blood. She could not continue much longer and John knew that neither could he. He found it hard to believe that at the beginning of this chase, he'd been sure he would survive. He only hoped that he had bought enough time for the others for finish this once and for all.

"Are you having fun?" he roared at the ceiling, his voice jerky between gasps of breath. "Are you enjoying hunting us from tier to tier, you bastard?"

Abruptly, he stopped. His legs, still caught up in the unending rhythm of the run almost tumbled over themselves at the sudden cease in motion. Beside him, Chiana had slumped against a wall, her breathing shallow as she clutched her bleeding shoulder. All around them, above, below, ahead, behind, black eyestalks gleamed with evil yellow light. Gun barrels stared like maws.

They were surrounded.

 "I _was_." The voice of Moya's navigator echoed against the golden walls like a wrath. "But then I released just what your incredible stupidity was in aid of. I'm not a fool, Crichton. I know a distraction when I see one."

A succession of unpleasant words hovered on John's lips. With a gulp, he forced them back, concentrating instead on edging next to the fading Chiana, and trying not to think about what would become of them if Pilot knew it all.

"Nothing to say?" Pilot's words were soft, deadly. There was no nasty playfulness now – the navigator was all business. "No denial? No words of defiance? You disappoint me, Crichton. You could have at least thrown yourself a little more into your role, instead of plodding mindlessly from tier to tier for a quarter arn, trailing the Nebari behind you. If I'd have known you were going to be so dull, I'd have finished you sooner."

 John met Chiana's tired, dark eyes. He saw the fear that played within them and fought down a rush of guilt and anger. But he forced his lips together. He would not play Pilot's game. He would not dance to order like a puppet on a string. If the navigator wanted amusement he could go elsewhere. John Crichton was done with being manipulated.

"Fine." The dismissal echoed from the empty air. "Be like that. Now this – this goes out to you all, to you, the trelk, the priestess, the warrior and the Dominar. _I know what you've done._ I saw Ka D'Argo in the maintenance bay, raiding the apothecary. I don't know what trick you pulled to blind my DRDS afterwards but it doesn't matter. You _will not_ get away with this. I will find whatever hiding place you have – you can't run from me and hide away forever. And I'll be taking _very_ special care. My tendrils will be guarded relentlessly. If I so much as catch a _sniff_ of one of you in the vicinity of any part of me, Officer Sun will die a _very_ painful death. And I'm sure you would not be so foolish as to doubt my sincerity."

Abruptly John found his voice. There was one question he'd gladly risk death to answer – just to know once and for all. "I don't doubt you'd kill her," he rasped, his voice still gritty beneath the heavy demands of his lungs. "But how do we know you haven't killed her already?"

"John."

John felt his heart, already pulsing like wildfire, skip into overdrive at the sound of his name, of the voice he had so longed to hear.

"Aeryn," he whispered back.

"John, I'm alive." Her voice rasped almost as much as his did – she sounded exhausted, battered, worn. But she also sounded real and fairly sane and to John, in that instant, that was all that mattered.  "But I don't know how much longer that will last. Please, John. Just do as Pilot says."

"Aeryn, are you all right? What has he done to you?" John forced his exhausted body upright as he stared in the unseen direction of her voice. "Aeryn!"

"Enough of the touching reunion." Pilot's dry drawl intruded heartlessly. "To be honest, it hardly matters anyway. You are never going to see her again."

John felt anger rise in his throat. "But you just said… what the frell good is a hostage if you kill her before you need to?"

John could sense Pilot's slow, cold smile. "You misunderstand. I'm not going to kill _her_. I'm going to kill _you_. Now."

A hundred gun barrels snapped into position as one. All were trained with unerring determination on the worn forms of Crichton and Chiana.

"Goodbye, Crichton." Pilot's voice was ringed with icy fatality. "And this time, I mean it."

The DRDs whirred forward. John felt his stomach drop as he exchanged a last, long glance with Chiana, her dark eyes bright in her pale face, searching for some brief, desperate sign that she might be ready for one last kick. But one gaze told him the Nebari was spent – she could run no further, not even one last heroic dash into the jaws of death itself. Instead she simply flashed a weary smile, and buried her face into her shoulder behind closed eyes.

"Sorry," she whispered.

"Me too," he whispered back.

The DRDs took aim….

The surge of light was blinding. John felt himself flung back by the impact of its power, a raw lightning surge that seemed to course through his entire body like a wave flung against rocky shores. For instant he thought he was dead – that this was what being blasted into pieces by a thousand pulse barrels felt like. But then through eyes that glittered behind a million sparkling coloured lights, he caught a wayward glimpse of the surrounding pack of DRDs as they spun in frantic circles, their antennae waving like tortured beetles beneath the sun-stroked magnifying glass.

What the _frell_?

 A sharp shock, like a mild electric surge whistled through the skin of his wrist. Abruptly, he felt himself being dragged forwards through the afterglow, a stunned Chiana at his side. A surge of raw energy seemed to hurry his movements – he felt himself almost leave the ground in his haste of motion, struggling through the air in a body too weak to support what it was achieving, as he hurtled blindly on and was flung, headfirst into the first available exit.

It was a shaft. He didn't know how it got there and he didn't care to contemplate – all he wanted at that moment was a chance simply to lie, motionless, gasping for breath so that he could quietly die in peace.

He didn't get it. A sharp shock, like the business end of a cattle prod jerked him back into alertness; his eyes opened to meet the stunned and not quite comprehending eyes of Chiana. She was lying on her side but her expression implied she had just received a wake-up call of similar potency.

"What….the….frell?" she mouthed, the words a bare expulsion of air.

A soft glow of light warmed the side of John's cheek. Without turning, he realised all at once just who he had to thank.

"I think that should be who the frell…" he murmured hoarsely. His gaze softly swung in the direction of the beacon gleam.

Kir's black, oblivious eyes gazed right back. As far as it was possible to tell, he looked annoyed, impatient, little sparks of energy coursing across his features like a miniature maelstrom. With one sparkling hand, he made an insistent gesture.

John was stumped. "Huh?" 

He immediately regretted it as pain surged abruptly through his skull. He winced angrily. As if he hadn't enough to contend with, now he had to play Lassie with a walking ball of light!

"Hey, there is no point is fricasseeing my brain, pal!" he exclaimed. "We don't speak the lingo of light, okay?"

"He wants us to hurry," Chiana's soft voice brought John to a standstill. "He needs us to get back to the others quick, so he can protect them too."

She paused as she felt John's eyes boring into her head. "No, I don't know what he said," she declared in response to the unasked question. "But I can get a feel of what he wants, okay?"

John regarded her. "Pip, you sure?"

The Nebari didn't answer. She simply shrugged.

Kir was glaring.

The human sighed. "Well, I guess it's as good a plan as any," he muttered to himself. With a weary groan, he forced his tortured muscles back into motion, and with Chiana and Kir just behind him, set out at a crawl into the vents.

*************************

From the look of deep relief that flashed across Zhaan's features when she caught sight of the battered and weary forms of John and Chiana crawling breathlessly out a nearby shaft into vent junction, Pilot's message had indeed been heard by all the crew. The Delvian rose to a half crouch, moving quickly away from a rainbow assortment of vials and pouches that lay spread over the golden floor in favour of coming to their side, aiding first the human and then the Nebari down onto the undulating surface. Her eyes fixed at once on the bloody tear across Chiana's shoulder and with brisk efficiency, she eased the girl down against a golden wall and reached for her newly acquired medicines.

"Thank the goddess you are both unhurt," she exclaimed, with a sigh of obvious relief as she carefully examined the Nebari's wound. "After hearing Pilot's words we were so afraid that Kir would not be able to reach you in time. And when you took so long to return…"

"Well, we're alive," John muttered, leaning back against a bulkhead as he enjoyed the blessed feeling of not moving at all. "The giveaway is the pain."

When the priestess glanced at him anxiously, he quickly shook his head. "I'm fine. See to Chi. She got the worst of it." His gaze performed a brief sweep of their hideaway and belatedly noticed two absences. He fought down a chill as Pilot's words danced across his heart;_ "I know what you've done._ _I saw Ka D'Argo in the maintenance bay, raiding the apothecary…"_   

In spite of the creaking protests of his body, he pushed his upper body upright. 

"Zhaan," he said anxiously. "Where are Rygel and D'Argo?"

"I'm here."  John almost jumped out of his skin as the deep voice of the Luxan growled at him from within an adjacent passageway. A moment later, the still hagged but much more lively looking form of D'Argo hauled himself out of the darkness and came to an abrupt halt beside John. "And I've left Rygel keeping watch at the foot of the shaft. We still can't be sure we weren't followed."

John managed a half smile. "Sparky keeping watch? How'd you talk him into that?"

D'Argo shrugged. "I told him if he didn't, I'd strip off his pathetic hide and use it to make a sheath for my Qualta blade. He became very helpful after that."

John's half smile blossomed into a grin. "Did you mean it?"

The Luxan regarded him for a moment. "Of course not. It wouldn't be strong enough."

"D'Argo," Zhaan's eyes had fixed on the Luxan the moment he had appeared and abruptly the atmosphere shifted to business. "Is there any chance?"

The Luxan met her anxious eyes and sighed. "None. Pilot has locked down the maintenance bay like a fortress. Every possible entrance has been sealed and there are enough DRDs on patrol to dispose of an army. I'm sorry, Zhaan. Not even Kir would be able to get near your medical bay now. We cannot retrieve the Gosh'cha berries."

John was instantly alarmed. "Wow, guys, slow down," he exclaimed, leaning forward with a brief wince. "What's happened?"

Zhaan and D'Argo exchanged a tired glance. "A stray DRD caught a glimpse of me whilst I was gathering ingredients for Zhaan," the Luxan explained. "Kir scrambled its systems temporarily with a pulse of light so that we could escape, but I dropped the berries Zhaan needed as I left. By the time I noticed, it was too late. I went back with Rygel to see if I could reach them but…."

He did not need to continue. John sighed, trying to ignore the heavy feeling of dread that gathered in chest like a lead balloon. "Were they crucial?" he asked softly.

Zhaan's expression wavered. "For a sleep potion, no. For the potion I had in mind, yes."

John frowned. "What's the difference?"

"The Gosh'cha berries are a very potent sedative." Zhaan took the scrap of material she had just torn from the hem of her robe and tied it carefully around Chiana's wounded shoulder. "The potion I would have made with them could have been injected directly into any of Pilot's tendrils for an almost instant unconsciousness. But without them…" She sighed. "There is no potion I can make from these ingredients that will be powerful enough to have such an effect on Pilot from such a distance. I can make him sleepy, perhaps a little less alert. But I cannot knock him out from here."

John waited. He had a bad feeling that he knew where this was going. "Go on."

The priestess seemed pale. "In order for Pilot to fall into a completely unconscious state, he will need to receive an undiluted dose directly into his body. That means he must take the potion either orally or through an infusion at the base of his tendrils. Those are the only two places where the dose will be able to affect him quickly enough to ensure Aeryn's safety. Anywhere else…."

She did not bother to complete her sentence. She didn't need to.

John felt strangely cold. His body seemed chilled, icy, emotionless, as he forced down all shadow of painful feeling and concentrated on pure intellect.

"And that's the best you can do," he murmured softly, his voice containing neither praise nor reproach, just a simple statement of fact.

Zhaan's eyes were filled with fearful sorrow. She nodded.

The levers clicked sharply into place. It was all suddenly, horribly clear. 

"Then we don't have any choice," John's voice, when it came, was cool and alarming calm. "Zhaan, make your potion. D'Argo, Chi, you help me to get hold of anything remotely resembling a weapon." His heart felt like a block of ice encased in a ring of fire; the secret, most instinctive part of his brain was screaming that he was a traitor. But there was nothing else left. He knew what they had to do; he must have known all along deep down, for there was no surprise. It had been inevitable from the start and he'd known it.

His eyes skipped from one face to the next, determined D'Argo, fragile Chiana, worried Zhaan and incandescent Kir. All would be in danger; all could lose their lives. But the situation was out of control now – the time had come to abandon the frying pan and head straight for the fire.

It was live or die time.

It was time to go face to face.

"We're out of options." The words felt remote, as though they were passing the lips of someone else. "Aeryn or not, we have to finish this once and for all. We're going to storm Pilot's chamber."

END OF PART SIX


	7. Firestorm

Breaking Point - Part Seven. By Jess Pallas.  
  
Disclaimer; I don't own Farscape or any of its characters. Please don't sue me!  
  
Feedback; Go on then! E-mail me at jesspallas@hotmail.com  
  
Archiving; If you like it, take it. But please, let me know first.  
  
Rating: PG -13 - some bits are rather grim. Contains scenes of violence and mildish gore. Be warned.  
  
Category; Drama, Action, Horror.  
  
Spoilers; TWWW, DNAMS, TGAS, IET, CDM.  
  
Timeframe; Midway through S2 probably after LATP. I can't be specific because I'm not sure myself!  
  
Summary: The crew discover a dead leviathan whose Pilot and crew have been brutally murdered. But who was responsible - and could the same fate be about to befall Moya?  
  
Copyright 12-07-2002.  
  
John still found it hard to believe that nobody, not Chiana, not even Rygel when he had returned, had chosen to protest his decision to take the fight to Pilot. In a way they all seemed almost relieved. One way or another, within an arn, it would be over. No more hunting, no more torture, no more games. They would finally know what fate - or Pilot - had in store.  
  
If they could just get near him.  
  
"You sure about this Sparky?" John's eyes were fixed upon the disgruntled, tired and distinctly odoured form of the former Dominar of Hyneria. Rygel stared right back.  
  
"No Crichton. I'm going along with it because I want to get us all killed! Of course I'm sure, you stupid prabakto! Do you really think I'd gamble with something as precious as my life?"  
  
John conceded the point. "True. But you know what you have to do?"  
  
The Hynerian rolled his eyes. "It's hardly brain surgery, Crichton. I wait until you and the others have started your suicidal assault and then I float down to beneath Pilot's console, take Zhaan's potion and inject him up the."  
  
"Good." John chose that delicate moment to intervene. He sighed. "I just wish there was some other way of getting into the chamber."  
  
"John, we've been through this." D'Argo's voice was calm and cool - the prospect of a fight back had improved his mood immensely. "Every other entrance to the chamber has been sealed and guarded by DRDs. Even with Kir to knock them out, we still wouldn't have enough time to cut through before the effect wore off and then we would be in really deep dren. A frontal assault is our only option. That door is the only one that Pilot hasn't sealed and we have Kir to get us past the DRDs."  
  
John's gaze slipped over to the corner of their hideaway where Kir lay crouched in a foetal position, his oblivious eyes apparently closed. He had wondered earlier but now he was sure - the energy being's glow was distinctly duller than before. The human's gaze lifted to Zhaan. She met his eyes knowingly.  
  
"He's tired, John," she said softly. "These energy bursts take a great deal out of him and the wavelength of the spheres is weakening him also, not to mention the fact he hasn't eaten in days. We have no tentrite on this ship that he can use to replace what has been expended."  
  
John glanced once again at the radiavore in concern. "Is he going to be up to this?" Zhaan sighed, her eyes drifting absently down to the important potion- making work being undertaken by her fingers. "He can give us two more bursts - three at the most." The Delvian's voice was an uncertain hush. "One for the DRDs outside the chamber and one for those within, with one held in reserve for emergencies. Beyond that, he can promise nothing. His aura is already fading. If he extends himself too much we shall all be exposed."  
  
John nodded. "He's already done more than enough. If it wasn't for him, we wouldn't have stayed alive this long. We owe him a lot."  
  
Zhaan said nothing. She simply smiled.  
  
John shifted his attention to where D'Argo and Chiana were crouched intently over a pile of what could only be referred to as junk. "How goes the arsenal?" he inquired, with more hope than expectation. His lack of faith was justified.  
  
"About as well as you could expect from a broken wrench, two metal bars, a dead pulse rifle battery and three spoons," D'Argo commented blandly. "There's nothing here that will even dent a being a thick skinned as Pilot. We might as well go in unarmed."  
  
"Hey!" Chiana protested. The Nebari had perked up since being given an herbal infusion by Zhaan to help her wound. "I did my best, okay? It's dangerous out there!"  
  
"Enough," John quickly intervened. "Big D's right, you couldn't assault a dead chipmunk with the dren we've got here. Besides, we don't really want to hurt Pilot. It's the DRDs we need to watch and if Kir and Rygel do their stuff, all we have to worry about is looking big and distracting until Pilot conks out. So just take what makes you feel better."  
  
Chiana pouted defiantly. Her gloved fingers fixed around the larger of the two metal bars at almost the same moment as D'Argo's. There was a pause and a brief exchange of glares.  
  
"I found it."  
  
"I'm bigger."  
  
"So you don't need it!"  
  
There was no retreat in D'Argo's stony expression. Her eyes glistening darkly, Chiana yielded. She grasped the second bar instead and stared at John challengingly.  
  
"It's all yours," he conceded gracefully. "So everyone clear on the plan?"  
  
"Oh, I'm clear!" Chiana's voice was irritable. "I don't like it, and I don't have a say in it again, but I'm clear! I'm clear on being a distraction for the second time today when I haven't got over the first time yet! I'm clear on."  
  
"Pip." John's voice was soft but it cut off Chiana's sentence like a knife blade. "Can it." He glanced around. "So we're clear. Now we just need to be ready. We're waiting on your potion, Blue and then we're cleared for lift- off."  
  
An injector glistened in Zhaan's azure hand. The sluggish turquoise liquid shimmered. "It's done."  
  
John smiled grimly. "Then let's go party."  
  
The journey to the den look a little longer than expected - the numbers of DRDs patrolling the corridors and vents was definitely on the increase. But thanks to Kir, they avoided any serious brushes and managed to remain unseen as they closed down finally on the entrance to Pilot's chamber.  
  
A surprise awaited them there.  
  
"So few?" D'Argo's voice was filled with incredulous disbelief. "Why would he post only five DRDs to guard his door?"  
  
"It's probably all he has to spare," John commented. "If what we saw on our way here's any judge, he's spreading the troops pretty thin." He grinned. "Besides," he added. "He probably doesn't think we'd be so dumb as to attack him from the front."  
  
Chiana pulled a face. "D'you think he knows something we don't?"  
  
John ignored her. He took a deep breath, intaking calming oxygen to sooth his precarious nerves. They'd be okay. She'd be okay. She had to be.  
  
Just a few moments more and then he'd see.  
  
"It's time, guys," he whispered softly. "Kir, you ready?"  
  
The radiavore nodded softly but John couldn't miss the slightly sickly edge that now pervaded his golden glow. He chose not to comment.  
  
"Sparky? Ready to inject some ass?"  
  
"As I'll ever be." The diminutive Dominar hovered uncertainly on his thronesled, his tiny hands gripping Zhaan's injector like a lifeline. "Don't frell this up, Crichton. Pilot has very good hearing and this thronesled isn't exactly silent."  
  
John smiled, wishing that the confident front he had so carefully constructed for the benefit of the others stretched a little deeper beneath the surface. "Trust me," he said softly. "We'll keep him busy."  
  
"You'd better," Rygel muttered.  
  
John gripped his fingers around the broken wrench. It might have been about as much use as a fan heater in the desert but it made a great placebo.  
  
"Guys," he whispered. "Let's do this."  
  
With a nod, Kir rose. He extended his lightning hands.  
  
This time John was ready for the blinding surge of light. Blinking madly against the residue that had permeated his eyelid, he burst to his feet, roaring round the corner and past the convulsing form of the DRDs. Footsteps pounded behind him, the heavy, threatening tread of D'Argo, Chiana's light patter and Zhaan's soft flow as they raced like desperate prey into the jaws of death. His hand reached out and clasped the door release; to his astonishment it gave without resistance. Was Pilot so arrogant as to think he didn't need to lock his door?  
  
Or.  
  
Oh frell.  
  
The lack of DRDs outside was immediately explained. They were not outside because they were all inside.  
  
It was quite obvious when you thought about it. It was just a shame that John had thought too late.  
  
The human went from rapid motion to immediate standstill for the second time that day. The three dull thuds against his back told him that his companions were close behind him.  
  
At least a hundred eyestalks glistened at them from the darkness, illuminating the walkways of the chamber from its abyss with neat little clusters of lights. It was like a midnight runway that lifted straight into trouble.  
  
The placebo effect of the wrench wore off very rapidly.  
  
But one pair of eyes didn't glow. They didn't need to. John could feel them.  
  
There were no lights in the chamber but the dull, multi-hued gyrations of the console and these flickering shades of ochre, scarlet, azure washed across the shadows of Pilot's face as though scared to linger there. The navigator's vast bulk hunkered within the darkness of his console lair, like a hunched dragon awaiting fresh virgins and the occasional foolhardy hero. But there was more darkness in his presence than a simple lack of light - it was all around him, hanging like a pall, shrouding him in black deepness and wicked, malicious intent. The black oblivion around him almost seemed to shimmer - and given Kir's information, it was hard to tell if this was a trick of the lack of light or a genuine vibration from the spheres - and he seemed to drink it in, to sup on it's power like some alien succubus as it prepared for the battle and the feast. His golden eyes teased from their hidden depths, unseen but more than present. Everything about him whispered of death.  
  
He was no longer Pilot. That was for certain. Whatever he was now, whatever he had once been, the being from whom this monster had been spawned had been obliterated utterly.  
  
And he was alone.  
  
There was absolutely no trace of Aeryn Sun.  
  
Pilot smiled, a slow uncurling of his mouth that more resembled a crocodile yawn than any expression of pleasure. "You took your time," he drawled unpleasantly. " I was expecting you arns ago."  
  
His dark fire eyes drank in Crichton's frozen face, the search of his eyes, the fear in his countenance and an expression of warped concern shimmered across the colour brushed glimpse of his features. "I'm sorry," he said with a scarcely concealed smirk. "Were you looking for someone?"  
  
The DRDs that saturated the walkway clicked to attention.  
  
And then for the second time, the world vanished into light.  
  
************************  
  
He had to hurry.  
  
Rygel gripped the golden curves that concealed the lower part of Pilot's den, his eyes still blinking against the encroaching silver residue left by Kir's second burst of paralytic light. He had seized quickly on the blinding confusion, surging forward on his thronesled and dipping quickly beneath the walkway as Pilot and the DRDs reeled, scudding across the vast expanse of empty air to the golden wall that wrapped around the lower half of Moya's navigator. Above him came a cacophony of brutal sounds, shouts, bellows, crashes and roars - a stunned DRD tumbled past him into oblivion, it's confused, waving eyestalks leaving a golden trail that marked it's soon to be abbreviated descent. Rygel closed his ears as best he could, trying not to dwell on what might be happening above him as he edged his way along the target wall, searching desperately for some kind of opening.  
  
In his lap, he clutched the injector like a talisman.  
  
And there it was! Rygel surged forward as quietly as he could to the gap that had just unfolded before him, a small cleft in the golden supports just wide enough for him to squeeze through. Beyond, all was dark and still, a protective silence that wrapped around the thickly tendrilled mass of Pilot's lower half.  
  
There was no sign of anything. Nothing moved in the impenetrable darkness.  
  
Rygel felt a shiver of glee. He could do this! He could actually do it!  
  
There was one minor snag. Rygel could fit though the gap. His thronesled, from this angle at least, could not. But if he were to dismount, slip inside and turn his sled onto its side - yes! Perfect!  
  
Gripping the injector safely in one hand, Rygel slipped his unwieldy body away from the sled and hauled himself tightly through the gap. His eyes twitched around the room nervously but still he saw nothing to alarm him, heard nothing but the noise from above. For a microt, he considered abandoning his sled temporarily and simply getting the job done. But no - Zhaan had said the injection had to be administered into the main bulk of Pilot's body and with his diminutive stature, he would be unable to reach the vital place without climbing Pilot's tendrils, an act the navigator would almost certainly notice. No - he couldn't afford to draw such attention to himself. He would have to get his thronesled.  
  
Rygel turned around, wrapping his tiny arms around the sled as he turned it on one side. He pulled.  
  
It was stuck. Frelling typical! Why the yotz had he agreed to do this in the first place? He should have made for the transport hanger, got off this crazy ship whilst he had the chance! What had he been thinking?  
  
Well it was too late now. With a grunt, Rygel yanked harder. The sled gave a little more, but still would not come free. With an angry wheeze, Rygel through his whole weight behind the effort, hauling as much as he could.  
  
Abruptly it came free.  
  
Rygel of course, went flying. He tumbled to the floor with about as little regal grace as it was possible to display, somersaulting across the cold, dark floor until he impacted with an unseen something and came to a sudden halt. He groaned softly in the darkness as he lay still, stunned for a microt against the strange leathery protrusions that had broken his undignified flight. Well, at least he had landed somewhere fairly soft.  
  
And then the protrusion moved.  
  
Light blazed from the two eyestalk suns on the far side of the room, shadowed beneath his serenely floating thronesled. Rygel's eyes fixed upon the black and silver of a peacekeeper boot, following the line up a leather clad leg past arms and a torso soaked in the now dried blood to the damaged face from which that blood had flowed, dark, tangled, bloody hair and wild blue eyes gazing from the sharp light and shadows outline of a too pale face.  
  
But what really caught Rygel's attention was the gun. It was pointing straight at him.  
  
And then something bright yellow and twitching surged out of the shadows to barrel into his head and the Dominar was hurled back to darkness.  
  
**************************  
  
His veins were on fire.  
  
With a roar that shook the invisible rafters, John Crichton charged, kicking his way past the immobile, twitching forms of the DRDs as he fought to get at Pilot, bellowing his defiance with gleaming eyes and burning lungs. Pilot watched his approach with something not unakin to disdain, a slight smirk creasing the corner of his mouth as his eyes drank in the desperation and fury of the human and the simple wrench gripped uselessly in one hand. It was a sight too pathetic even for pity.  
  
The navigator moved like lightning. Even as John's foot made contact with the console in preparation for a frantic thrust forward, Pilot's arm whipped out like a serpent and slammed into the human, hurling him backwards in a delicate arc that coincidentally concluded with D'Argo. Struck by the weight of a projectile human at speed, the Luxan stumbled backwards and tumbled to the ground in a tangle with John, scattering DRDs in all directions. As D'Argo fell, his flailing arm contacted with an advancing Chiana and sent the Nebari reeling back. As she staggered, her foot caught on a rotating DRD; faced with this new obstacle, she lost contact with her balance altogether. Darkness loomed before her eyes, the beckoning summons of distant gravity - it was only Zhaan's instinctive grab of the young thief's belt that prevented her from tumbling from the walkway towards an intimate acquaintance with oblivion.  
  
Pilot watched and smiled nastily. It was the best entertainment he'd seen in cycles.  
  
"Is that the best you can do?" he commented mildly. "That's always the way, isn't it? You look forward to something so much but it always turns out to be a disappointment."  
  
John managed to free himself from D'Argo and scrambled to his feet, breathing with difficulty. "Sorry.if we're boring you!" he gasped, spitting out the words angrily.  
  
Pilot cocked his head. "Oh, I'm not bored," he drawled dryly. There was a nasty glimmer behind his eyes. "You're better entertainment than the peacekeeper."  
  
John felt his heart turn to lead. "Where is she?" he said coldly.  
  
Pilot gave a little smile. "Safely tucked away. Fulfilling a purpose."  
  
John's expression tightened. "What the hell do you mean by that?"  
  
Pilot released the edge of a chuckle. "That's for me to know, and you. not to. That way it's a pleasant surprise."  
  
"John!" The soft summons came from behind him. The human didn't even turn.  
  
"Not now!" he snapped.  
  
"John!" Zhaan's voice, an urgent whisper, came again. John risked a glance over his shoulder to meet the anxious eyes of the Delvian.  
  
"Dammit Zhaan, I just said."  
  
"John, the DRDs!" Zhaan interrupted sharply. "They're coming round!"  
  
It was true. All around, yellow bodies twitched and pulsing eyestalks glittered as slowly but surely the functions returned to Pilot's little soldiers. Already several, more forward than their fellows, had begun experimentally aiming their cannons at the human's forehead.  
  
"Thank you, Crichton," Pilot's voice carried echoes of soft, mocking laughter. "Your pointless desire for a conversation has allowed me to recover my DRDs. I really am very grateful." Abruptly, his expression darkened. "But now, I've had enough of this. I suggest you prepare to die."  
  
A flicker of light in the corner of John's eye immediately restored his hopes. He smiled.  
  
"Not today, pal," he drawled.  
  
And once again, light filled the world.  
  
But this light was different. It was not the incandescent, blinding burn that had marked Kir's previous defences. It was duller, less sharp, less intense, a sickly shadow light that pulsed like a shivering candle in a gale lashed window before dying with a gasp. The already stricken DRDs pulsed as before, their antennae waving - but they did not convulse as intensely or shut down with quite such force. With chilling horror, John realised - Kir had nothing left. A quick glance over his shoulder gave him a reading of Zhaan's face; it was a mask of anxiety and concern. The radiavore was spent and they were on their own.  
  
As the light drew back, it danced across the furious face of Pilot. "What keeps doing that?" he roared, rage writ large on every shadow-hewn crag of his face.  
  
John grinned with sudden recklessness. "That's for me to know, and you not to!" he declared. A sudden fire filled his body, heart and soul as he saw, inscribed across his mind in bright, incandescent letters, exactly what he had to do. He felt shapes loom at his shoulders - the vast, towering shape of D'Argo, the lithe slender form of Chiana and the smooth, azure presence that was Zhaan - and knew at once what they all had to do. It was now or never - Kir's ineffectual burst was already wearing away. Either they acted now, this microt, this instant or they died. And they all knew it as well as he did.  
  
They acted.  
  
It was immediately obvious that this time, Pilot had not been expecting a rush - he was still dazzled by Kir's small but effective pulse and half his attention had been focussed on his DRDs. The shock combined with the necessary instant to shift his concentration from remote attack to personal defence proved enough. The four shipmates burst through his defences and leapt over the console - Chiana launched herself onto one of his half raised arms with a whooping battle cry, flinging her whole weight into removing that limb from the fray. Unfortunately, she was unable to stop the second - Pilot's rear arm swung around in a dangerous arc and sent her flying backwards, hurtling into Zhaan who had been close upon her heels. The two women were thrown unceremoniously back to the floor. D'Argo proved marginally more successful - he caught the navigator a glancing blow to the side of his carapace with his hefty metal bar, but once again Pilot's reactions were too fast. He snatched the weapon from the Luxan's hand and hurled it back at him in one smooth blur, impacting solidly into his shoulder. Off balance, and clutching his arm, the warrior too suffered a rapidly forced withdrawal.  
  
But for John, the mere distraction of their attacks had proved enough. The human slammed forwards like a thunderbolt from a tornado, grasping Pilot firmly by the carapace with one hand even as he jammed his broken wrench against the soft skin of the navigator's mouth. For a microt, Pilot's eyes flared and his arms began to reach for the human, but the very firm press of jagged metal made him think again.  
  
"How long d'you think you're going to survive after I ram this down your throat?" John's expression was pure fire, his voice a soft drawn out hiss. All thoughts of leniency, of simple distraction were forgotten - all John knew was the he was face to face with the being who had tortured them, the being who had imprisoned and now discarded Aeryn to some unknown fate. A friend he may have once been but there was no trace of such sentiment now and to his own surprise, John found he was quite prepared to act if all other hope was exhausted. What he had seen left him in no doubt; in this moment, at this time, the Pilot he had known and cared about was dead. By releasing his physical shell from the grip of a psychopath, he would be doing him - and Moya - a favour. Neither of them deserved this.  
  
Behind him, he could feel the burn of his shipmate's eyes against his back. The air shivered with anticipation as the darkness roared in his ears. Heat stroked the skin of his face as Pilot's eyes glimmered like a pair of dancing flames. He did not look afraid or even concerned as he met the ice of the human's stare with pure, unquenchable fire.  
  
"You won't kill me," he said softly.  
  
John's expression echoed of glaciers. "After all you've put us through, why the hell would you think I wouldn't?"  
  
In spite of his perilous situation, Pilot smiled. "Three reasons."  
  
Crichton's face cooled from ice to stone. "Shoot."  
  
The navigator's smile spread. "That would be the first one, yes."  
  
Behind, he heard Chiana gasp. There was a whirr and several dozen clicks.  
  
John felt that back of his neck prickle. He knew the feeling well after a year and a half in the uncharted territories. It was the feeling of being targeted.  
  
The effect of Kir's final burst had barely lasted fifty microts.  
  
He risked a half glance back. The corner of his eyes fixed at once on the three contrasting forms of Chiana, Zhaan and D'Argo, huddled together in the centre of the walkway. A sea of living yellow eyes and twitching jet- black barrels undulated away from their feet.  
  
John's eyes drifted carefully back and lingered briefly but intently upon one of Pilot's claws. It was gently stroking a panel.  
  
"Get away from that command," he said softly.  
  
Pilot regarded him. "I can tap this console a great deal faster than you could kill me with that, Crichton. So I'll just keep my claw exactly where it is."  
  
"I don't believe in stalemates. Move the claw."  
  
Pilot smiled unpleasantly. "I'm not afraid of you. Answer me truthfully, Crichton. Out of the two of us, who do you believe would be least inclined to hesitate?"  
  
John did not reply. He didn't need to.  
  
"You know as well as I," Pilot spoke gently, softly, a tone almost reminiscent of the being, all but forgotten, that he had once been. "Because of reason number two. You still think I can be redeemed. I see it in your eyes, human. That is why you brew sleep potions instead of poisons. You aren't here to kill me, Crichton. You're here to save me. And that is why I'm going to win."  
  
"No," John shook his head, casting a soft ripple into the shimmering air. "Yes, I think you can be redeemed. And yes, I didn't come here to kill you." He leaned forward until his forehead was resting against Pilot's carapace, a slow, sinuous motion reminiscent of a serpent roused from sleep. "But if that what it takes, I will. Because in killing you, I won't be hurting a friend. I'll be freeing one from himself."  
  
Pilot's expression wavered slightly. The barest flicker of doubt crept across his eyes. John fought back an exultant little surge. "And whilst I have your undivided attention, let's take a wild stab in the dark about what's behind door number three," he declared extravagantly. "Let me guess - the third reason I won't kill you is the radiant, the delectable Aeryn Sun. Right?" He didn't give Pilot a chance to respond, although the expression that flitted across his face implied the guess had not missed its mark. "Well, I don't see her here, pal. I don't know if she's escaped you, if you've hidden her away or if you've killed her already. But the way I see it, you can't threaten me with someone that you don't even have!"  
  
There was a lengthy pause, a long, drawn out bout of silence filled only by the slow uncurling of Pilot's smile. There were some nasty implications behind his features, a dancing, mocking little undertone that implied that it's wearer not only had the best hand in the pack, but several spare aces up his sleeve for good measure. John's adrenalin level dropped like a stone - the red mist that had shrouded mind and eyes drew away like a curtain to reveal the true peril of his situation. His body encroached into his awareness like a lead weight, heavy, stiff, ponderous, screaming aches and roaring pain whispering into his consciousness with ever increasing force. The wrench in his hand shrank into insignificance, a small, dull piece of metal that probably wouldn't even penetrate Pilot's rock solid hide, let alone cause any damage. A hundred DRDs were poised to blast his backside, not to mention those of his friends, into so many lumps of meat and fibre. And now it was very obvious that Pilot knew something he didn't.  
  
What had he done? Where was Aeryn?"  
  
"You misunderstand, Crichton." Pilot's voice was a sibilant drawl. "Aeryn was my third reason. But I never had any intention of threatening her."  
  
John felt the unpleasant plummet of terrible dread sear his chest. "What the frell are you talking about?" he whispered. "What have you done with her?"  
  
Pilot laughed coldly. "Why don't you ask her yourself?"  
  
Scarlet tore the air, the screaming red flash of pulse fire. John lurched backwards, clutching his fist with a cry of pain as the wrench vanished from his grip in a bright red blur to tumble, swallowed into the distant darkness. Even as he reeled, a projectile shape hurled past his ear from the all-consuming black that cloaked the rear of Pilot's console, a small, green fleshy lump that bounced and tumbled pathetically to a standstill at the feet of Zhaan, limp, motionless and alarmingly still. John heard Chiana gasp even as he fought down his own pulsating heart as his last vestige of hope flickered and died into nothingness.  
  
It was Rygel.  
  
They were screwed.  
  
The barrel of a pulse pistol gleamed against the residual glow of the panels, grasped within the slender fingers of a pale hand. Slowly, step by step, inch by inch, the darkness peeled back to it's advance, oblivion falling away like ice black water flowing to the summons of gravity to expose a long, white arm and a lithe, familiar outline, her ivory skin, jet hair and bloodstained face bathing her in the colours of the peacekeepers who spawned her. Her gun was trained at John.  
  
She was smiling.  
  
But it was not a pleasant sight.  
  
Aeryn Sun shared a quick, knowing glance with the navigator who just arns ago had inflicted her wounds, her cold playful expression almost a mirror to his.  
  
"You were right," she drawled softly, her voice echoing with an icy timbre more reminiscent of Crais or Scorpius than the Aeryn Sun that John had come to care for. "They're so predictable."  
  
John's eyes were fixed on the apparition before him in disbelief - his ears had heard Zhaan's words, her declaration of the possibility that Aeryn may have turned, but they had never quite penetrated his heart. But seeing her now, like this - it carried echoes of a part of her past he had always fought to pretend had never happened, even when faced with it forcibly in the cold light of honesty. And more, much more; this was not the woman who had thrown him so furiously to the ground a cycle and a half ago, not even the woman who had barely flinched as she gunned down an innocent Pilot and handed over her lover for almost certain death. This was Aeryn Sun as she could have been, an Aeryn who had risen in the peacekeepers to the ruthless rank of captain, a clinical killer stripped of all emotion but the joy of power. This was the future John's inadvertent actions had saved her from.  
  
At least until now.  
  
Her eyes fixed upon his as though to read his mind. She smiled again.  
  
"Oh, Crichton," she murmured softly, the words stroking her lips as they slid into the air. "You are such a fool."  
  
The dark barrel of her pulse pistol extended towards his forehead. "Move away from him. Now."  
  
John battled to contain the shaking convulsions that threatened to steal control of his body. "What if I don't?"  
  
Aeryn's eyes flicked to Pilot. The DRDs surrounding Zhaan, D'Argo and Chiana began to circle threateningly.  
  
"Then you will watch the rest of your friends die, one by one, until only you remain. And then, we'll start the real fun."  
  
The rest.. John's brain caught instantly upon Aeryn's words. "Rygel," he whispered. "What did you do to.?"  
  
Aeryn's expression never wavered from its sultry intensity. "No more than he deserved."  
  
Her eyes caught upon Zhaan's anxious lurch towards the immobile Hynerian and her weapon swung at once to train itself upon the Delvian.  
  
"No further, priest!" she ordered sharply. "He is beyond your ministrations."  
  
For a moment, it seemed that Zhaan intended to disobey, to thrown caution to the winds in her effort to tend to the unmoving Dominar. But Aeryn's gun at last persuaded her different; with a stricken expression, she stepped back into the comfort of D'Argo's arm.  
  
John gazed at her flatly. "You've killed Rygel." The words did not seem quite real somehow.  
  
Aeryn regarded him. "No," she replied coolly. "Because I'm not the one who sent him blindly unprotected to attack a helpless being. I know Rygel - he wouldn't volunteer to risk his life. Which means someone made him and I think I can guess who that would have been. So, if anyone is responsible for his fate, it is you."  
  
John stared at the golden bulkheads. He could hardly believe he was hearing this - his mind was a whirling void of incomprehension. Somehow, someway, a part of him had never quite released the idea that somehow everything would work out fine. But now.  
  
Rygel dead?  
  
At Aeryn's hand?  
  
This couldn't be happening. He was going to wake up any second.  
  
"Something the matter, Crichton?" The harsh drawl of her familiar voice made his flesh creep.  
  
"You sound just like Pilot." The words escaped his lips like drops of ice.  
  
Aeryn's lips curled slightly. "Thank you."  
  
"It wasn't a compliment."  
  
"It was for me."  
  
The human shook his head. "Why the frell are you doing this? What's your little excuse?"  
  
The Sebacean shrugged. "It seemed like a good idea. After all, Pilot and I have always been very close - we share DNA after all. And besides, when it comes to it, he has a point. You do bring nothing but harm to Moya. In that respect, she was safer under the peacekeepers."  
  
John gaped. "She was a slave!"  
  
Aeryn tilted her head. "And what is she now? She is as much under thrall as she ever was. And so she will stay - until you are eliminated."  
  
John leaned forward intensely. "And what about you? What's your role going to be in New Order of Moya?"  
  
"We've worked something out."  
  
"You made a deal?" John gestured abruptly at her bloodstained face. "He bashed your head in, for God's sake!"  
  
"That was before he realised I was on his side." There was an alarming gleam in Aeryn's eyes. "He was only defending himself. As I shall defend him and Moya, once you are gone. That will be my role. But I will be an equal, not the master. And that will make all the difference."  
  
It occurred to John that maybe she was still concussed, that Pilot had used her confusion to brainwash her. Perhaps she was barely aware of what was going on and after all, the amount of Pilot DNA in her bloodstream - the most likely culprit for her susceptibility to the radiation - was only minor. Pilot was far too far-gone to be reasoned with - but was Aeryn unreachable also?  
  
If he could only find a chance to try.  
  
John fixed his eyes on hers, wishing it was not only in his imagination that he saw a glimmer of her former self staring back. "He'll turn on you too, once he had no-one else left to play with," he said softly. "You can't trust him, Aeryn."  
  
The peacekeeper stared back. "I think I can. You aren't going to drive a wedge between us, Crichton. We aren't as gullible as that."  
  
"Aeryn, look at yourself," John tried to conceal the desperation from his tone, but it leaked out and trickled down the edges of his words. "You are in no fit state to make a decision like this. You aren't yourself."  
  
"You're wrong." Aeryn's smile spread like a predator stretching its fangs. "I've never been more myself. For the first time in my life, I am seeing clearly."  
  
"Aeryn," This time the voice belonged to Zhaan. "Crichton is telling the truth. Moya has been permeated by an invasive radiation that is affecting her and both of you. We can stop it, we can make Moya well again, if you just let us. Please, we want to help, there is no need for this."  
  
"A trick." Pilot's voice cut through Zhaan's delicate words with the force of a keen blade. "I can detect no radiation."  
  
"That's because it's everywhere!" John jumped to Zhaan's aid. "It's made itself so endemic to the ship you can't see it anymore! And it's affecting your minds! Dammit, you have to listen, you have to see.."  
  
"We don't have to do anything!" This time it was Aeryn's voice that intruded. "You are not the rulers of this ship anymore!"  
  
"We were never rulers!"  
  
"Silence!" Aeryn's voice shattered John's into a thousand shards. Her eyes were laughing at him and glaring all as one. "You just don't get it, do you Crichton? I don't care! It doesn't matter to me if I'm in my right mind or not - all that matters is that it feels good, right here, right now. I've never felt so in touch with myself, so alive; it reminds me of my time in the peacekeepers, my true life, before you stole it from me, the exhilaration of the hunt, the fight, the kill. All that held me back was all the frelling discipline getting in the way. And now I am free of that too." She smiled cruelly. "You've spent so much time getting me to search my soul, Crichton. It's not my fault you don't like what I've found."  
  
"Is this going to take much longer?" There was a petulant note of boredom evident in Pilot's voice. "I've had my fill of self-explanatory banter for today. I'd sooner just get to the point."  
  
"Very well." Aeryn smiled deliberately at John and gestured towards the golden arch of the door with her pulse pistol. "Run," she ordered.  
  
"What?" John exclaimed.  
  
"What?" repeated Pilot and in his tone there lurked imminent danger.  
  
Aeryn turned at once to the hulking navigator who was regarding her with abrupt, undisguised suspicion. "Something wrong?" she offered casually.  
  
Pilot's eyes fixed ruthlessly upon hers. "You expect me to let them go?" he said coldly. "My intent was to finish them now; before they cause any more trouble."  
  
There was a nastiness to Aeryn's smile that John didn't like to dwell on. She sauntered forward, resting one arm against the side of Pilot's console as she leaned towards her ally. Her gun-totting hand never left its target. John was not fool enough to consider that might not be giving it her full attention.  
  
"Where's the enjoyment in slaughtering them helpless?" she asked slowly, her voice as pointed as a mouth full of incisors. "I've done that too often before. But to hunt them down.. Now there is a challenge. And in a challenge comes the thrill."  
  
Pilot rolled his eyes. "That thrill is wearing thin for me."  
  
Aeryn's smile spread darkly as she toyed with her pistol. "You haven't heard my ideas yet."  
  
There was a flicker of sudden interest in Pilot's eyes. "What ideas?" he asked with an unpleasant relish.  
  
Aeryn smiled conspiratorially. "Not in front of the prey," she said with a mocking grin. "I'll tell you when we're alone. But trust me, Pilot; we can squeeze days more entertainment out of these four yet."  
  
"That as may be," A frown flitted across Pilot's face. "But I'm tired of so much work for no reward. I want to see someone die. Now."  
  
Aeryn gestured to the motionless Hynerian who still lay untouched at Zhaan's feet. "What about Rygel?"  
  
The navigator snorted. "That was more a service to the universe than a pleasure. Besides, I was only half watching. Crichton was waving a wrench in my face."  
  
"I know," Aeryn pushed herself upright in one sinuous curve and stepped easily around to the walkway as she casually waved her black pulse pistol from face to face. "We let three go and keep the last one. Three to hunt and one for your craving. That way, we both get what we want."  
  
Pilot paused, apparently mulling it over. John felt a chill go down his spine. There was something deeply sinister about listening to the casual way that Pilot and Aeryn were delegating the rest of their soon to be truncated lives. It was almost disturbingly surreal. It was like listening to a cannibal talk recipes.  
  
The navigator came to a decision. "All right. We'll do it your way." He glanced from prisoner to prisoner thoughtfully. The unwanted image of a gourmet seafood restaurant with a pick-your-own-victim lobster tank fluttered across John's mind.  
  
Except this time, it was the lobster doing the choosing.  
  
Pilot finished his assessment with a sigh. "They all look as bad as each other to me," he commented indifferently. "The Luxan is in pieces, the Nebari is on her last legs and the Delvian looks spent. Even the human seems to have lost his spark. It'll be a mercy to which ever one we chose." He sighed. "Oh well, needs must. Do you have a preference for who we should keep?"  
  
Aeryn shrugged. "Not really. Which one do you think will be the least entertaining?"  
  
The navigator waved a claw. "Hard to say."  
  
"Then let's just keep the last one out." Aeryn leant back easily against the golden curve of the console once more, swinging her pulse pistol around one finger. "The slowest will probably be the weakest and stronger specimens last longer."  
  
Pilot nodded his assent. "A good plan. Very well."  
  
Abruptly his expression darkened, a wave of ill intent that dropped across his face like a thundershower mask. A claw danced quickly, deliberately across his console. With an ominous whirr, the door drew back, exposing the debatable safety of Moya's gold ribbed passageway beyond.  
  
"Get out," he ordered brusquely, waving a dismissive claw as his would-be playthings. "Now."  
  
John's eyes grazed across the exit. Some would have seen it as the gateway to freedom. But the last few days had taught John Crichton some valuable lessons, the foremost of which was how to read a situation. If he went through that door, he would live - but he'd wish he hadn't. And even with Aeryn's inventive ideas, Pilot's playful instinct was beginning rapidly subdued by his homicidal desire - it was only a matter of time before he abandoned the games and did away with them once and for all. Kir's energy, their only weapon, was exhausted unless the radiavore could get some rest and rejuvenate - but until then, they had no defence against DRDs. And Rygel's attempt to inject the serum had failed. Quick death, slow death - apart from pain, what was the difference? It all came down to time, in the end - time for Kir to recover, time for Zhaan to brew more sleep potion. And with Pilot and now Aeryn focussed intensely on their deaths, time was a luxury they weren't going to get.  
  
Unless..  
  
Unless someone kept them busy.  
  
A hollow opened up in the cavity of John's chest. But what else could he do? They didn't need him, not really - they needed Zhaan to make the serum, Chiana to keep watch with her sharp eyes and ears and D'Argo to protect them both. He could not contribute anything that they could not provide themselves. But if he were to stay..  
  
He could buy some time.  
  
And maybe, just maybe, he could reach through to Aeryn.  
  
Last one out..  
  
Sudden resolve consumed him - the adrenalin returned in a tsunami of determination. Eyes glittering, he turned to Pilot and drew his battered form to its full height.  
  
"Screw you," he declared with a wild smile. "I'm through running."  
  
One of Pilot's eye-ridges rose slowly. He regarded Crichton in much the same disdainful way as a man who'd just found gum on his best pair of shoes.  
  
"Oh please," he drawled with a roll of his eyes. "Spare me."  
  
The impact was stunning. John collapsed in a tumbled of pain as he slammed to the ground, picking up several nasty bruises as his flight brought him down onto a cluster of DRDs. The droids withdrew hurriedly, dumping him unceremoniously on the golden floor as he battled to his knees, trying to ignore the agonised throb of his cheek from the force of Pilot's casual blow. Staggering and more than a little disorientated, he dragged himself upright and reeled against the console.  
  
"You don't get rid of me that easy!" he gasped, wondering as he did so if he was now the one with the concussion. He was sure that Pilot shouldn't be spinning quite like that..  
  
"Us either!"  
  
For a moment, John thought he might have been hearing things. But as he glanced back at his companions, he realised all at once that D'Argo had indeed spoken. The Luxan was drawn up in massive defiance, his raging eyes gleaming. Zhaan was a floral statue at his side. Chiana's eyes were twitching unmistakably towards the open door, but a steely glare from D'Argo and the invisible and annoying prickle of her conscience stayed her. John was not the only one through running.  
  
It was all very gratifying. But unfortunately, it also rather destroyed the point of John's sacrifice.  
  
Great.  
  
How was he supposed to buy them time if they didn't go and take it?  
  
John was not the only one feeling irritated. With an exasperated sigh, Pilot thumped his claw against a panel. With a furious whirring, the DRDs surged into life, battering violently at the feet of three on the walkway. Pilot fixed them with a steely glare.  
  
"If you are not gone from here in ten microts, I will kill you now," he declared bluntly. "Ten."  
  
Chiana was already backing away, glancing anxiously at the open door. It was against her nature to avoid any way out of a bad situation and her nature was screaming at her now, if only she could make her legs obey. At her side, both D'Argo and Zhaan had fixed their eyes on John in an apparent unspoken resolve not to desert him. He tried to gesture but his body, still slightly uncertain after his tumble, could only manage a slump against the console. He was desperate to cry out, to make them understand he didn't want their heroic gestures, but Aeryn was watching him like a hawk. What could he say without revealing their intent? Oh, frell, what were they waiting for?  
  
"Nine."  
  
"John!" Zhaan called his name with sudden fear rippling through her voice as she read the intention that shimmered in his eyes. She started towards him but a shake of his head pushed her back. They had to go.  
  
"Eight."  
  
Abruptly John found his voice. "Get out of here now!" he ordered sharply. "I'm not leaving and you're not staying!"  
  
D'Argo steamed forward furiously, landing a violent kick on the nearest DRD. "We will not just abandon you!" he roared. John ignored him, his eyes suddenly fixed on the unmoving form of Rygel. Aeryn had not mentioned finding the injector on him; perhaps he still had it. That would save time - maybe enough time. It would be nice to believe that poor Buckwheat's death would count for something.  
  
"Seven.."  
  
"Yes, you will!" John stared at them with a sudden ferocious intensity. Understand. Please, God or whoever, please make them understand. "Take Sparky! Get some sleep and restore your energy! Then come back for me!"  
  
"Six."  
  
"Like they'll be anything to come back to!" Chiana muttered under her breath. But light had dawned in the eyes of both D'Argo and Zhaan. They exchanged a sudden glance and began to back almost deliberately away. Yes, yes, yes.  
  
"Five."  
  
With an unexpected burst of speed, Zhaan lunged down, scooping up the still form of Rygel and clutching him to her chest. Chiana, after a shove from D'Argo, had already bolted.  
  
"Four."  
  
With a last fiery glance behind him, D'Argo turned and fled after his lover. Zhaan lingered a microt longer, her eyes filled with sorrow as they fixed for the final time upon the battered, stubborn form of the human Crichton. He flashed her a smile.  
  
"See ya, Blue," he mouthed softly.  
  
"Three."  
  
Zhaan's eyes glinted with tears but she did not move towards him, for which John was grateful. Instead, gripping Rygel against her, she turned sharply and finally fled.  
  
"Two."  
  
A trailing streamer of Zhaan's robe fluttered out behind her as the Delvian darted into the corridor. A moment later she vanished from sight and John was left alone.  
  
Well except for..  
  
"One.."  
  
With a dull thud, the door slammed shut. Pilot's smile burned against John's skin.  
  
"Time's up," he hissed softly.  
  
Sharp fingers dug into the soft flesh of his hand - the air whirled in a confusion of dark colour and sound as his body was dragged into motion. He felt a warm shape press against his back as his arm was twisted agonisingly into his shoulder blades; a long pale arm snaked across his chest, grasping him in an unrelenting grip. The pulse pistol that it guided pressed coldly against his temple.  
  
Aeryn's hair brushed silkily against his neck as she pressed her face against the side of his head. He could feel the rise and fall of her chest against his back. He sensed the cold burn of her eyes. Conflicting emotions did battle in his mind.  
  
"Crichton," Her voice was a whisper straight into his ear, her breath a serpent's kiss that vibrated against his cheek like warm poison. "Thank you for volunteering."  
  
END OF PART SEVEN 


	8. Rise and Fall

Breaking Point - Part Eight.

By Jess Pallas.

Disclaimer; I don't own Farscape or any of its characters. Please don't sue me!

Feedback; Go on then! E-mail me at jesspallas@hotmail.com

Archiving; If you like it, take it. But please, let me know first.

Rating: PG –13 - some bits are rather grim. Contains scenes of violence and fairly mild gore. Be warned.

Category; Drama, Action, Horror.

Spoilers; TWWW, DNAMS, TGAS, IET, CDM.

Timeframe; Midway through S2 probably after LATP. I can't be specific because I'm not sure myself!

Summary: The crew discover a dead leviathan whose Pilot and crew have been brutally murdered. But who was responsible – and could the same fate be about to befall Moya?

Copyright 28-07-2002.

The passage was dark and still, a narrow arching curve that edged it's way along a forgotten corner of Moya's lower tiers, darkened braces balancing to conceal the five diverse shapes that huddled in it's shadowed embrace. Despite the presence of a being once incandescent, now it was the turn of darkness to swallow the light.

But not to swallow the spirit.

"You mean he _isn't_ dead?" The tired face of Chiana lit up as she stared at Zhaan in joyful disbelief, her dark eyes suddenly as bright as sunset. "But Aeryn said…"

Zhaan shrugged, a smile creasing her worn chlorophyll features sincerely for the first time in arns. "It seems Aeryn was mistaken. Rygel is merely unconscious."

D'Argo's features creased in puzzlement. "That is not a mistake that you would expect a peacekeeper to make," he commented. "They usually finish what they start."

Zhaan shrugged again. "Perhaps she was preoccupied by coming to Pilot's rescue. Besides, when such a miracle comes, we should not question it. We should merely thank the goddess that, despite the horrors we have endured, we all remain alive."

"Maybe," Chiana's eyes wandered in the direction of Pilot's chamber. "If Pilot and Aeryn haven't finished with John."

There was a moment of unpleasant silence. Chiana stared down at the immobile form of Rygel, as D'Argo examined a wall with an abrupt glare. Zhaan let her eyes wander to the corner of their quiet, hidden passage hideaway where the now dull, and almost halo-less form of Kir crouched, desperately meditating to restore some echo of his power.

"What are we going to do now?" Chiana's words rippled through to push aside the silence. Her grey features looked hewn as stone in the twilight of their concealment.

"That serum was our last hope. What can we do except wait for Pilot and Aeryn to finish up with Crichton and start coming after us?"

Zhaan softly shook her head. "No, child. Hope is never passed whilst there is spirit to support it. We can make more serum; with rest, Kir may recover enough to attempt another burst." Her expression hardened. "John sacrificed himself to give us this time. We must not waste it. We must honour his memory by carrying out his final wish."

Chiana shook her head. "What final wish?"

Zhaan met her eyes – even in the darkness, her emotions were easily perceived.  "That we go on. That we survive. That we save ourselves from Pilot and Aeryn – and save Pilot and Aeryn from themselves." She took a sharp breath. "I intend to return to the ventral junction where we left my herbs. I believe I have enough ingredients left for two more doses." 

D'Argo nodded. "One from Pilot, one for Aeryn."

"Yes. Once we have more serum, we can make another attempt to reach Pilot. But we must act quickly." She paused, taking several deep breaths as she forced down the emotion rampant in the harshness of the words that would follow. "Whilst they are still occupied."

A grim pause followed, broken after several microts by the growling voice of D'Argo.

"What about Kir?" he muttered. "He doesn't look well enough to move, much less help us."

Zhaan glanced at the energy being, her concern not quite concealed by the shadows that washed over her face. "He is in a state of deep meditation," she said softly. "He believes it will provide him with enough light to give us one last burst – if he is not disturbed."

D'Argo sighed. "Well, we can't stay here, and we can't leave him. How is he going to come with us if we can't disturb him?"

The Delvian sighed. "You will have to carry him."

Instant alarm crossed the Luxan's features. "But…" he began, a protest hovering on his lips.

"He is dormant, D'Argo," Zhaan intervened. "It is perfectly safe." She drew a breath. "Enough of this. D'Argo, bring Kir. Chiana, carry Rygel. We go on and this is the only way. And hurry. We may not have much time."

*******************

The impact of the golden floor sent shockwaves through John Crichton's already battered body. For a microt, he could barely move, barely breath, stunned into brief blissful non-awareness by the glancing blow that had just been applied to his skull. He could feel the slow trickle of blood as it wept down his cheek, the raw pounding of rainbow bruises and the sharp penetrating throb of cuts. He began to form a vague impression of how it felt to be ground through a mincing machine.

Struggling against a rising weariness within, he forced himself to open his eyes. Black eternity stared back, not the welcome relief of unconsciousness, but a long, distant plunge past gleaming neural clusters into a far, invisible nothing.

"This is pathetic." The voice came from above and behind, a harsh, disdainful whiplash tinged with a mixture of disgust and disappointment. "We should have kept D'Argo. At least he would have put up an interesting fight."

"Humans," the second voice chimed in, this time tinged with mocking amusement. "They are ridiculously fragile. Barely a quarter of an arn and he's broken already."

John felt a growing hysteria rise within his chest – he tried to laugh but was answered only by a bubbling choke as bloody saliva soaked his lips.

"You know," he croaked with a gasp. "If you break all your toys this fast, your mamma's gonna take them away from you!"

From the unseen dark behind him, one of the voices laughed softly. "How long was that?" he asked his companion.

John heard footsteps echo against the walkway – a black shape towered against the strained edges of his vision but he could not, would not turn his head to look more clearly. "Fifty-three microts," the harder of the two voices shimmered from above. "I told you he was weakening. The gaps between his gestures of defiance have increased by nearly fifteen microts since we started."

John struggled desperately to rise, cranking his arms with all the energy he could muster so as not to remain floor-bound. But his body, it seemed, had suffered just about all that it could take – his arms gave up the ghost with no more than a creak and a throb, leaving him to slump exhausted to a golden floor that trickled with his own blood.

_So this is it_…. The thought flicked through his mind unbidden and sparked a dawning realisation. _How many times have I thought that today? Three, four?_ He half-smiled ironically under his breath. It came to something when a person lost count of the number of times in a day he'd almost died.

"Oh, for frell's sake," Aeryn's now harsh voice slashed across his consciousness, tearing unpleasantly against his thoughts. "He isn't even putting up a_ fight_, just flailing on the floor!"

A solid black boot slammed into his already screaming ribs. Crichton bit his lip until it bled as he collapsed back to the ground, trying desperately not to cry out as pain ricoched from muscle to bone in his chest. He was determined at least not to give them that satisfaction.

"Get up!" Aeryn roared at him, a wave of sound that rode on the back of yet another bone shattering blow to his torso. "Now!"

John coughed, his throat raw as he struggled to regain his breath. 

"Get..._stuffed_!" he intoned with a gasp.

"I'd watch what you say, Crichton," Pilot's voice was dripping with mordant amusement from the pool of light flecked darkness to his right. "You might give her ideas."

"What is the matter with you, Human?" Aeryn's words slashed against his ears. "I always knew you were subnormal, but this…. We want to _kill_ you, Crichton! Aren't you even going to fight _back_?"

John grimaced as he fought to retain his sanity above a rising tide of agony. He forced himself to remember that he had volunteered for this – that he had stepped into the mouth of Hell so as to give his companions a chance to snuff the pilot light whilst he tried to convert the devil. He hadn't really made much progress in trying to talk Aeryn down – most of the words that had passed his lips had been one form or another of exclamation. 

Maybe it was time to try.

"I don't…want to hurt you," he gasped softly. "Either of you."

Aeryn snorted disdainfully, her eyes raking his body with a distinct lack of respect. "Like you could!"

Pilot's soft voice echoed from beyond her, his tone rich with darkness. "You don't wish to hurt us, Crichton?" he drawled coolly. "That isn't the impression you gave me earlier when you threatened to ram a broken wrench down my throat!"

John closed his eyes – his body was shaking, his mind was awhirl, every breath was a pain-racked struggle. But he had to stay focussed – and more importantly he had to stay alive. Time… it was all time….

"I was desperate," he whispered, his voice a raw rasp that staggered ungainly from his throat. "I had to stop you. I had to get you to listen…"

"To what?" John could sense the disdainful smile that must have been lingering across Pilot's face at that instant. "To your fascinating little fiction about the radiation? You must think I am a fool."

"It's no fiction." John's voice was no more than a glorified choke. "Surely you must be able to see how you've both changed! Aeryn, even a couple of arns ago, when you spoke to me over the comm…"

Abruptly his body was yanked into unwilling motion. A hand grasped his belt – with a jerk he felt himself being hauled unceremoniously upright. Fingers gripped his shoulder as though to draw blood– hard boots kicked his legs into place as a second hand caught his waist and spun him around on his heel.

To stare straight into the cold blue eyes of Aeryn Sun.

He had barely seen her. Until now his glimpses had been half-light and shadow play – flickering glimpses insufficient to truly assess. But now, with her ivory hewn features just inches from his, John found for the first time that he could clearly see what Aeryn had become.

She looked a wreck. There was no denying that. Her hair was a tangled web of darkness, twisted into strange unearthly curls by the dried blood that also coated the flesh of her face like a grotesque tattoo that contrasted sharply with the paleness of her skin. And she was pale, even more so than normal and there was a gaunt weariness around her eyes that gave her a shrunken, almost skeletal appearance. But there was no tiredness in her eyes themselves– they gleamed with fanatical zeal like a pair of hard, blue agates, giving nothing, taking all. It seemed almost to John that her eyes were the only part of her still truly alive – the rest of her body seemed to hang from them unwillingly like a walking cadaver held together only by the murderous strength in her eyes.

She looked like the dead possessed.

John couldn't speak. It hadn't been so noticeable with Pilot – the navigator had hidden himself well, not appearing in the clamshell and cloaking himself in the dark. But with Aeryn, with a face whose every contour was etched into his mind, whose every expression he could read without thinking, it was glaring. What the frell was this radiation _doing_ to them both?

"Aeryn," he whispered.

A smile flickered across her face, a fleeting nasty twitch of feeling.

"John," she whispered back. "John, I'm alive. But I don't know how much longer that will last." Her eyes gleamed with unearthly cruelty as she watched realisation dawn across the human's features. _The message in the corridor_….

"Please, John," Aeryn's voice was a tone for tone match to the desperate words which had fired his heart just a few arns before – her expression was one of cruel mockery. "Just do as Pilot says."

John felt his stomach drop away. That message had been his hope, his drive – to be told now that it had meant nothing at all was painful. He met her playful, ice-cold gaze with an iciness of his own.

"So you played me," he drawled softly. "You played the gullible human. Congratulations."

"Oh, John," Aeryn shook her head slowly, a blur against the black stained background. "I do not understand you. All I'm doing is giving you what you've always wanted."

John stared at her incredulously. "What?"

Her iron grip on his shoulder eased abruptly – with a gentle coyness, Aeryn's fingers danced playfully across his shoulder and reached out to stroke the battered, sensitive skin of his face with tantalising slowness. Under other circumstances, John's heart would have been cheering at this sudden motion, but all that flickered through his core now was repulsion. This wasn't his Aeryn and it meant nothing. She was mocking his feelings and both of them knew it.

"I'm giving you an Aeryn without limits." Her face moved towards his, slowly, deadly, sultry, a wraithlike apparition of the woman he'd once known. Her breath seared his cheek like cold heat as her fingers weaved patterns against his temple. "An Aeryn not constrained by foolish discipline and denial of emotions. What I feel, I say. And what I say, I feel. I would have thought you'd have liked me better this way."

John's heart was pounding like thunder in his ears – adrenalin surged through his veins to spill new life into battered limbs. He forced himself to attempt some semblance of calmness, but with Aeryn's unyielding proximity, it was a little hard to focus.

"Thanks," he managed at last. "But I liked Aeryn better when she wasn't a sadistic killer."

A smile teased her cheekbones. "I've always been a sadistic killer, John. You simply chose not to see it."

He could feel her breath as it swelled her chest, so closely pressed were they. Her eyes glittered like sapphire stars. Her touch was a caress against the skin of his face, her breath a sultry poison. He could feel it brush his lips. She was so close…

"You're crazy," he said softly.

Pain shot through his face with agonising force as her fingers thrust themselves into his flesh – even as he squirmed in shock and pain, he felt himself being thrust backwards, propelled by the sharp force of her hands. He tumbled, staggering for some manner of control – he caught a half-glimpse of Aeryn, not laughing or angry as he might of expected, but breathing hard, her head bowed as a grimace that hinted of pain contorted her features. But John really did not have time to consider Aeryn's mood – he had far more urgent problems. Abruptly he ran out of walkway, his left foot flailing out over an alarming amount of nothing as his right foot scrabbled to hold him vertical. His arms windmilled desperately as his toes scraped on the edge of the abyss, his body convulsing and contorting like a drunken marionette. But it was no good – his balance had fled in the same direction as his dignity – and his toes lost their tenuous grip once and for all. He felt himself falling away, tumbling into the void below. To his own surprise, it came as quite a relief.

Out of nowhere, Aeryn's arm lashed out. Fingers still stained with his blood grasped his belt, preventing the blissful drop at the last instant. She hauled him back to the near vertical, his toes clinging once more to the golden edge, unable to find a safer haven. John breathed deeply, rather surprised and mildly disappointed to find he hadn't plunged to a sticky death and made a brief assessment of his new situation. It was hardly much more favourable. The black abyss still yawned alarmingly beneath him; he was nowhere near safe from its call. The peacekeeper might have saved him for the time being but he had no illusions about where gravity would take him if she were to let go. The only thing standing between him and oblivion was Aeryn.

Not the most reliable lifeline in the universe right now.

Or was it?

Because for just a microt, a brief instant so fleeting that it barely registered on his consciousness, a look of alarmed concern had settled on Aeryn's features. It vanished almost instantly, quashed out of sight by a hard-edged look of fierce determination that John knew all too well; but a quick glance told the human instantly that something had changed. The casual, confident brutality had been erased – the Aeryn that faced him now was strung, tense, the fingers that held his life in their grasp shaking almost imperceptibly. He glanced up to meet her gaze but her eyes swerved away from his as though repelled. She was no longer smiling.

"What the frell did you just do that for?" At the sound of Pilot's voice, Aeryn almost seemed to start. "Why didn't you just let him fall?"

That was a good question. John's eyes trained themselves decisively on Aeryn, examining the sudden friction that vibrated across her features as he waited for an answer.

A cool smile forced its way onto Aeryn's face but it gleamed with falseness and effort - gone was the casual cruelness of just a few microts before.

"Well," she exclaimed softly. "It wouldn't be right to cast him away without a proper goodbye, would it?"

Pilot snorted and rolled his eyes. "_I _would not have a problem with that."

"Well I do," There was a breathy quality to Aeryn's voice, a hushed seductiveness that did not quite seem to sit right with her demeanour.  "Where's the fun in an accident?"

Pilot's golden eyes gleamed unpleasantly in the darkness. His light taunted features were taut with irritation. "Infinitely more than watching you drool over that human," he declared harshly. "Just do as you will with him and have done with it. I wish to start plans for the others. Unless of course, you would rather _reconsider_ our arrangement."

Pilot was losing patience. John didn't miss the brief flicker of concern that flitted almost unnoticed across Aeryn's face – her skin, already ivory, paled further in the half-light. Despite Aeryn's claims of equality with Pilot, it was pretty obvious to John at least who was in charge.

But Aeryn's moment of alarm had passed – her expression rose into a fierce smile. 

"Very well," she said coolly. "It seems, human, that your end has come at last."

With a single fluid, sinuous motion forwards, Aeryn filled his world. Her odour, a bloody musk, filled his senses with a cocktail of revulsion and allure. He could feel the press of her chest against his heart, the soft, sensuous caress of her free hand as it slid around his waist, lingering for a moment against the small of his back, before trickling it's way on down….

But instead of warm fingers, John felt something cold and hard press against his skin. He almost started but the fierce gleam of Aeryn's gaze stayed him just in time – he suppressed his surprise with a gulp. A microt later a second something joined the first, still cold but larger, flatter, more angular, forced behind his belt and tucked firmly into place. Her finger explored its edge for an instant, before coming to rest upon a sharp outcrop of the smooth surface. There was a jerk and then abruptly a strange sensation spread across Crichton's back and the rear of his legs, a gentle, disconcerting shudder.

The whatever was vibrating.

What the _frell_?

Aeryn's hand withdrew. A brief satisfaction stained her expression.

"Crichton," she intoned, her voice pointed and precise. Her eyes flickered rapidly in Pilot's direction but the navigator it seemed, had lost interest in her antics and was barely paying attention.

"The time has come," Aeryn's voice was a soft, deliberate declaration. "For you to follow the path of Dominar Rygel."

And then she met his eyes and every thought and feeling, every horror and hope in John's Crichton's mind stopped absolutely dead.

It was Aeryn whose gaze now bored into his soul.

His Aeryn.

John opened his mouth to speak.

She pushed.

He felt his toes part company with the walkway, his final hold on the land of the living ripped away by one simple motion on the part of Aeryn Sun. For just a microt, all around came to a standstill; he froze, half fallen in mid air to gaze upon the sharp outline of her face against a backdrop of indistinct nothing. Her eyes filled his heart.

And then reality resumed and she was gone.

He was falling.

And this time no hand reached out to catch him.

The world was a blur, spinning pulsing, indistinct, a rotating tangle of black, silver and gold. Air rushed past his skin, a maelstrom rising – he was tumbling, writhing, hurtling through the air like a skydiver gone haywire, his whole body coursing and vibrating to the strange rhythm spun out from the small of his back. Ridiculous thoughts flitted through his mind – it was a bomb, a booby trap designed to go off as he fell so that his remains would be splattered to best effect like some gruesome Fourth of July. Aeryn had rigged him as the first ever human firework.

His senses were a blur – screaming air whipped against his ears, his eyes ran with cascades of water as colours flitted through his vision indistinctly. He could taste bitter blood against his tongue, feel the whiplash touch of resistance against his skin. He could smell his fear.

And still he fell. Did this frelling chamber ever end? Was he going to tumble in a coloured blur for the rest of eternity?

He closed his eyes.

And the world stopped.

John paused, waiting for his mind to catch up with his sudden lack of sensation. The rush of air, the tingle, the burn against his senses –all had ceased abruptly. There was nothing, nothing but the blackness against his eyelids, nothing but the aching pulse of his worn body as it hung, frozen in a horizontal spread eagle, his limbs dangling behind him as they reached out towards the ground. Nothing but a low, invasive and strangely familiar hum that matched exactly the frequency of vibrations from Aeryn's deftly provided something.

Huh?

Was that it? Had he hit bottom and somehow transfused into the next world pretty much as he'd left this one? This wasn't quite how he pictured dying after a several hundred foot fall – surely it should have hurt for a start. Perhaps he had landed on a walkway – he had had several near misses on his passage downwards -but again, wouldn't pain have been a factor? Besides he could feel no firmness beneath him – if he hadn't have known it was impossible, he would have concluded that he was lying motionless on his back in midair.

John opened his eyes and realised he was wrong.

He _was_ lying on his back in midair. But he wasn't motionless. 

He was _rising_.

Granted, it was slow and slightly on the jerky side – the juddery hum that had earlier caught his ear was whining uncertainly, the vibrations shuddering out of tempo as though to complain that they were not accustomed to bearing this kind of weight. But at that particular instant John was not about to complain. He didn't know quite what was happening but he did know this – he was a great deal more alive than he'd expected and that was not a gift to question.

Above and a little to the left, a walkway was bearing down on his ascent. Shaking himself into some kind of composure, John quickly twisted his reluctant body, swimming against a tide of empty air as he flipped himself over, flinging out a hand to catch the golden lifeline as it passed. His fingers grasped the grainy surface – determinedly his trousers continued to rise, taking his lower body with them but John acted quickly, groping back with his free hand until his fingers seized upon the smooth metallic object that Aeryn had slipped him. He found the small protrusion almost at once, a small, switch like device, but using an unknown switch in an unknown device was not necessarily the safest of plans. But his fingertips were straining to maintain their hold on the walkway – his trousers were on the verge of continuing without him. This was no time to be cautious.

He flicked it.

With an abrupt thump, John slumped headfirst onto the walkway, his chin colliding with solidness with unpleasant amounts of force. For several microts, he barely even bothered to breathe, struggling to come to terms with the fact that, instead of being splattered over a fairly decent radius of floor space, he was in fact lying safe, if a little bruised and sore around the chin, after taking a rather unexpected turn as a human elevator.

What the frell was going on today?

 "Feel better now?"

John started furiously, his body leaping to half upright fuelled by pure adrenalin as his head whipped around in search of the owner of that voice. But there was no black and white figure gazing down at him, no hard blue eyes fixed upon him with disdain. There was nothing but the ghost of darkness and the pale rising gold of the neural nexus towering to his left to spill out another walkway a few dozen yards above. A shadowy shape swept across it's length, her voice echoing as it spoke, not to him, but to the being ingrained into the vessel not very far above him. With a hollow rush, John realised where he was, where this walkway led.

It was the access to Pilot's lower chamber.

"Much," Above, Pilot's voice echoed with a nasty, sadistic glee. "But couldn't you have killed him and then thrown him over the walkway? I find it much more enjoyable when I actually get to watch the life drain away from their eyes."

"True," Aeryn, it seemed had returned to her old position at Pilot's side, judging by the striation of echoes that shimmered from her lips. "But then we would have missed that wonderful look of horror on his face when I pushed him."

Pilot's laugh was low, cold, cruel. "That was worth watching, I'll admit. But Crichton is gone now, and the universe will not miss him. It is time to turn our attention to the others."

A cold chill seized John's heart. Time was up. With his apparent demise, nothing stood between Pilot and the fates of his shipmates. And yet here he was, scant yards from Pilot's exposed underbelly and _nobody knew_ he was there. It was a God given opportunity if he could only find some way to use it.

He started to half-rise but something dug sharply into the small of his back, reminding him abruptly of his unknown saviour. He reached back at once, fingers closing on the flat, metallic object as he drew it from behind his belt and lifted it into the half-light. 

His eyes widened.

Of course the hum had been familiar – he had heard it every day for the last cycle and a half. A disbelieving smile flickered across his worn features as he twisted the anti-gravity unit from Rygel's thronesled over in his hands. It had been removed hastily from it's casing, judging by the scarring of tool marks around it's rim, but it's function had not been damaged – at least not so much as to prevent it breaking the fall of a rapidly plummeting human. 

But the unit had not been the only thing he had been given. A second cool jab against his back reminded him all at once – Aeryn had slipped two items into his belt. His hand swung back at once, yanking the second device to freedom and hauling it before his eyes.

His jaw dropped. His heart soared.

This was it.

It was Rygel's serum injector.

_Follow the path of Dominar Rygel…_

Aeryn.

Aeryn was _faking?_

John could hardly breathe, hardly think as a thousand conflicting thoughts, feeling, sensations, emotions, danced before his eyes. That was the answer, it had to be – why else would she have provided him with both the opportunity to reach Pilot and the means to stop him? But all the taunting, the sadism, the cruelty she had portrayed – surely she would not have been so harsh – not least to poor Rygel – if she was in her right mind. But yet she had saved his life and potentially everyone else's as well. Why would she do that if she were the monster she had seemed? It made no sense.

But now was not the time to ponder it. There would be chance enough later to find out Aeryn's state of mind; right now, it was Pilot who needed to be stopped and John with an unrivalled chance to do the stopping.

He paused, his ears straining to hear the low conversation going on above him, to be sure his target was occupied before he plunged into the deep end.

"…Never thought of using it that way." It was Pilot, his cool, clear voice delighted as he laughed softly in response to whatever suggestion had just been made. "You really are very ingenious."

"I have more." Aeryn's voice echoed through the chamber like an icy wraith. "If I could just show you…"

Through the dark, high above, John caught a fleeting glimpse of Aeryn pulling herself up onto the flashing welter of lights that surrounded Pilot and leaning down intently over a panel. Even as he squinted, trying to catch a better view, he saw her foot snake backwards and press down firmly against a panel just out of Pilot's view. Whatever she was doing, she obviously didn't want the navigator knowing about it.

Grinning to himself, John turned and headed quickly over to the neural nexus. 

Time to party.

It was the work of microts to scramble up the slender ladder that linked the walkway level to Pilot's lower chamber. He approached the cusp of the circular doorway warily – it would be foolhardy to assume that Pilot had not maintained some kind of guard. Most of the DRDs had been dispatched from the chamber a little while before, most probably to prepare the way for hunting down the others, but there was no guarantee that some had not been banished here.

Gripping the rung just beneath the entry with both hands, John slowly raised his head above the lip, his eyes sweeping the chamber with rapid efficiency. A glimpse of yellow caught his eye – he dropped back at once – but after a moment, his brain caught up with his instincts and processed what he had just seen more accurately. Still wary, he raised his head gently once more but this time held position, allowing a thorough sweep of the chamber. His eyes fixed at once on the three yellow guardians scattered across the darkened room, one resting high in an alcove to his right, one just a few yards in front of his face and a third, positioned beside the white, tangled mass of Pilot's tendrils. Just beside it, Rygel's thronesled lay upside down on the golden floor, it's underside pulled apart to provide him with the component that had saved his life.

But of more interest to John were the DRDs – principally the fact that they didn't appear to be moving.

In fact they didn't seem to be doing much of anything at all, their little gun barrels slumped against the ground, their eyestalks dark and drooping. For a moment, John hesitated, painful memories of Pilot's cruel trickery playing through his mind, but then a new image surged through his mind, a shadowed half-impression of the leg of Aeryn Sun, reaching backwards across the console.

The DRDs.

She had shut down the DRDs.

The way was clear.

It was hard to believe after so much pain and so much suffering that it could possibly be this easy. Indeed, although John's mind was opening exulting at this stroke of good fortune, his body, still feeling the principal effects of his earlier efforts to bring this to an end, all but shut down in disbelief. It took all the effort he possessed to force himself to climb those last few rungs of ladder, to clamber into the shadowed chamber and stumble the three steps that took him within touching distance of Pilot's lower body. He stared at it almost blindly, the ridged contours, the dark maw that spilled the bright white tendrils down into the bowels of the ship, the tiny, wasted legs that twitched and spasmed more out of a sense of duty than any real need to move. His eyes ran over the glittering form of the glass injector, Zhaan's serum vibrating fluidly in his shivering hand. One motion. One move. One click and it would all be over.

A sudden elation filled him, a sharp reckless exuberance. Overhead he could hear voices, Pilot plotting his crew's demise with the woman who had tricked him, completely unaware that a man he thought dead was about to bring it all crashing down.

It was a good feeling.

"Hey Pilot!" he roared suddenly. "Guess who's not that easy to kill?"

Above him, he heard Pilot gasp. He felt himself smile.

With one swift motion, he plunged the injector into the base of Pilot's tendrils and squeezed the serum home.

Pilot's scream of rage echoed through the chamber like a maelstrom of sound.

"CRICHTON!!!" he gasped furiously. "Crichton, you're… how could you…"

His ineffectual legs swiped at the human but John had already back-peddled out of the way, an avenging grin plastered across his face.

"Poor Pilot!" he bellowed gleefully "How _gullible _are you?"

"_What_?" Pilot ripped out the word with the force of rage. "What are you talking about?" His voice struggled to expel the words against the sudden incursion of sleep potion. His lower body was already wracked with convulsions and John was fairly certain by the jerkiness of the navigator's voice that the effect must have spread all the way to the top.

 John didn't stop to think – he was too caught up in the triumph, the glory of the moment, the final victory after so many defeats.

"Aeryn played you, Pilot!" he yelled at the tops of his lungs, fighting a powerful urge to burst out laughing. "She sucked you in and spat you out! So much for your glorious revolution!"

"_Aeryn_?" Pilot carved the word out of the air with a blunt blade. "Is that _true_?"  

"_No_! No, he's lying to you, I would never…" 

There was real fear in Aeryn's tone and her voice was originating from an alarming proximity to Pilot. John's adrenalin level dropped like a stone as he realised he had just made a serious error in revealing Aeryn's betrayal – Pilot sounded in the mood for rapid reprisal and Aeryn, for whatever reason, was still within his range. His eyes glanced back towards the ladder well but he knew almost at once that if he took the long way around, he would never reach them in time. He grasped hold of the anti-gravity unit, flicking the switch as he flung himself towards the hatch. Wrapping in his arms like a buoyancy aid, he stared out into infinity.

And jumped.

Aeryn's scream pierced the darkness like a knife, squeezing to a gasping choke as Pilot's claw closed mercilessly around her throat. John's eyes fixed with horror upon the scene before him as he ascended rapidly to walkway level.

Aeryn was half-kneeling on the console, her hands scrambling desperately at her throat as Pilot's claw seized it in a vice-like grip. There was no self-restraint here, for this was not the righteous anger of a quarter cycle ago but genuine malicious murder. The navigator's pincer claw was squeezing mercilessly and it was only Aeryn's reflex grab that had prevented the instant crushing of her windpipe.

Abandoning his ride, John grabbed the edge of the walkway and hauled himself up, hurtling from dead halt to flat out run with the force and speed of a thunderclap. He leapt onto the console at a flying bound, slamming into Pilot's arm with all the force he could muster in a desperate effort to knock it away from the peacekeeper's throat, but Pilot was not to be thwarted from this death at least – a free arm grasped Crichton harshly by the hair and flung him backwards towards the abyss. Even as John hurtled back through the air, a chance caught the corner of his eye – snatching out his arm, his fingers fixed around the still ascending form of the anti-gravity unit. For a terrifying instant he swung out over oblivion once more, his momentum carrying him almost beyond his emergency life buoy. But his screaming fingertips held – he reversed on the back-swing, curving round in a graceful arc through the shadowed air and with a wild yell, he hurled himself back at Pilot.

It was obvious at once that the navigator had not been expecting an assault from the air – his expression gaped in disbelief as he caught a last minute glimpse of the leaping human bearing down from above, his eyes gleaming, his smile maniacally wild. Then Crichton was on top of him, sprawling across his carapace in a jarring impact that jerked the navigator backwards. His grip on Aeryn lessened for a crucial microt – with a cry, the Sebacean yanked herself free and tumbled backwards, rolling head over heels onto the walkway to slump in a shuddering heap against the golden surface. Furious, Pilot tried to grab John for more of the same; but it was immediately obvious that the odds were shifting in the human's favour. John easily slapped away the drug-weakened assault, pushing himself free as he scrambled away from the console and dropped, breathing hard, at Aeryn's side.

"Sweet dreams!" he called out, his smile all but bursting from his cheeks as he faced the incandescent navigator. "All this stress you've been under – I think the rest will do you good!"

"You can't keep me unconscious forever!" Pilot's voice slashed at the two foes huddled on the walkway just beyond his reach. His hunched body writhed like a flame-bitten snake in the shadowy flicker of the lights of his console, his golden eyes gleaming with avenging fire. "Not if you want to breath, and eat and survive aboard my ship! You'll have to bring me round sometime and when you do…" His voice broke off with a gasp, his weakened body sagging as he fought against the sleepiness that was dragging at his limbs. 

"I…" he rasped out harshly. "Will make… you…. _pay_…."

The last word drawled out like a dying gasp as Pilot's strength finally failed him. His head slumped forward, his golden eyes, extinguished finally of the fire, slipping closed beneath the heavy weight of his carapace. His limbs sagged, and drooped, slumping motionless against the pulse of his console. A last gasp escaped his lips, a single angry expulsion of breath before he tumbled deep into silence.

Stillness fell. For a microt there was no sound, no motion, as the magnitude of what had happened finally sunk in. Then a slow, dawning smile spread across John's face and fighting an exuberant urge to jump up and down like a six-year-old, he turned towards the slumped form of the Sebacean beside him, reaching a hand towards her shoulder.

"Damn, you're good!" he exclaimed. "You had me completely…"

Her hand whipped back, slashing his touch away as her body shuddered frantically. John's eyes widened in horror as he realised for the first time that Aeryn's distress was not simply an aftermath of Pilot's assault – she was gasping for breath, her body pulsating, shaking, shivering as though trapped in vibrant seizure. Her fingers scrapped the floor until they bled.

"Aeryn!" John darted to her side, reaching for her face but her head whipped up before he could touch her, her eyes fixing upon him. John felt his stomach drop as he stared into her storm-tossed gaze, her eyes a mad tempest of sanity and bloodlust, self and fever as a battle roared within her between insanity and control.

"Inject me!" she cried, her voice a desperate screech. "Inject me now before it comes back! I can't hold out much longer!"

John stared mindlessly at the serum injector still gripped within one palm, but the glass container had been drained dry by its use on Pilot.

"Aeryn, I… I can't! I don't have any more!" His voice broke as he stared down in helpless horror, his heart pounding in his ears, his frustration welling within him like flash flood against a dam. He had to help her!  "Aeryn!" he exclaimed desperately.

Abruptly she wheeled on him, her pulse pistol gripped in her hands – John staggered back in sudden shock but the pulse blast he'd expected did not come; instead the peacekeeper grasped his hand and thrust the gun into his fist.

"Take this!" she gasped at him, her face contorted by wave after wave of agony. "If I turn again, shoot me! It's the only way!"

That was not an argument John was prepared to accept. "Wow, now wait a second! I am not going to shoot…"

"_Do it_!"  Aeryn's voice slashed his argument apart like a knife. "I am not going back to being like that! Do you hear me? _Shoot_!"

"But…"

John jumped violently as the door behind him slammed forcefully open; D'Argo's bellowed war cry half-shattered the air before trailing to abrupt silence as he paused, kicking aside several lifeless DRDs as he beheld the scene before him. Chiana hurtled abruptly into his back, her trilling call breaking off as she peered over her lover's shoulder, her dark eyes wide and shocked. Behind them, Kir was a sickly glow of confusion, bathing the azure form of Zhaan in his now pale glow. The glassy silver of an injector glistened in her hand.

John's eyes fixed on it instantly. "Zhaan!" he bellowed. "Get over here!"

But the Delvian did not need telling. Her feet were already skimming rapidly over the golden floor as she hurried to John's side, dropping quickly into a crouch behind the huddled, convulsing form of the Sebacean. Her eyes lingered for a microt on John, his skin a riddle pattern of blood and bruises, on Pilot, his darkened form strangely serene in repose, before they fixed at last upon the pale, gaunt form of Aeryn Sun. Her arm arched down – the injector plunged into the bare skin of the peacekeeper's arm with a hiss. Aeryn's face whipped up, taking in the new situation at a glance and the brief edge of a smile flickered across her face.

"Thank you," she whispered softly.

And then her eyes slipped closed and she slumped into unconsciousness.

Nobody moved.

Nobody breathed.

Slowly, softly a blanket of silence settled over the den, across the statuesque forms of the five companions, across the motionless forms of Pilot and Aeryn as a strange invisible light cut a gentle swath through the darkness. It seemed to lift the heavy weight, the pall of atmosphere that had lingered shroud-like over them all, casting away the throbbing pain and exhaustion in favour of light-headed, bright relief. They all sensed it, all felt it and one by one it caused them all to smile.

For the first time in several solar days, peace had fallen over Moya.

*********************

"So how are you feeling?"

Aeryn's eyes slipped upwards from their blank contemplation of the plate of food cubes that Zhaan had placed before her half an arn before to focus unwillingly on the gently smiling human silhouetted in the archway of the chamber entrance. She smiled back, albeit wanly as he crossed the room, a slight gingery quality to his walk implying that he could still feel the impact of their fight five days before, and settled opposite her at the centre chamber table. Quietly, he placed down the cup he was holding and, extending a finger, he pushed it slowly across the surface towards her.

"Your medicine, fresh from Zhaan," John nodded to the unappetising green fluid that had settled sluggishly in the offered container. "And you never answered my question. How are you, Aeryn?"

Aeryn pulled a face as she examined the potion with an expression of mild disgust. 

"You mean apart from the pounding head pain and the nausea?" she snapped sharply. 

John's smile was tolerant. "Still haven't shaken the irritable hangover then?"

Aeryn glared at him. "Ten out of ten for observation, Crichton."

The human shrugged at the sarcastic retort, a reaction that for strong irrational reasons only served to annoy Aeryn all the more. "Couldn't you at least pretend to be cheerful?" he exclaimed. "Come on – give me a smile, babe. You know you want to!"

The expression that filled the peacekeeper's face was the most sarcastic attempt at a smile that John had ever witnessed. "I don't want to," she retorted dryly. "Because I'm saving them for when you're dead."

John regarded her steadily as he placed a hand against his chest. "You wound me," he declared.

Aeryn sniffed. "I wish."

John rolled his eyes. "Oh for frell's sake Aeryn, will you give me a break?"

"Certainly, Crichton." Aeryn's eyes slipped across the human's body with predatory ease. "Arm, leg or neck?"

John sighed. "Just drink your medicine, will you?"

It was Aeryn's turn to roll her eyes. "It tastes like dren!"

"And it looks worse, but you'll feel better for it." John's expression was serious. "And maybe it make you quit with the verbal maulings. I'm battered enough as it is."

Aeryn gave an irritable huff and picked up the cup. For a microt John thought that she intended to hurl it away – several of Zhaan's earlier doses were still decorating the walls of Aeryn's quarters - but instead, with a grimace, she swung the cup to her lips and swallowed the liquid whole. Her face contorted as it traversed her tongue, but a microt later she shook her head and dropped the cup back to the table. Gazing down, she sighed.

After a fair amount of silence, John risked a smile. "Feeling better?" he ventured.

Aeryn's eyes flickered towards him. "A little – I suppose," she offered reluctantly. "I'm sorry, John. I just can't help it."

"I know," John nodded kindly. "Zhaan said you'd be like this for a couple of days. That radiation can't be leeched out of your system overnight. But if you just keep taking your medicine, you'll be fine soon enough." He smiled. "You know, Zhaan's learned a lesson from the medicine showers you gave her when you first came to. She's started injecting Pilot whilst he's still unconsciousness. Hopefully by the time he comes round he'll be as sweet and good-natured as you."

A frown creased Aeryn's pale brow. "How is Pilot?"

John sighed. "Still out cold. But he's breathing more easily and most of his colour's come back. Zhaan's lowered the dose of sedative. She reckons he may wake up any arn now. She's staying with him and she'll let us know if anything changes."

He shrugged. "It's a good thing too – Moya's getting more active by the arn now that those damn spheres have gone. If Kir hadn't known the basic life support functions from watching Kaalene's Pilot, we'd have been screwed. And now he's gone, we just have to hope Pilot won't be out for much longer."

Aeryn glanced up from destroying a food cube with her fingers. "Kir got away all right then?"

"Yep," John leaned forward, poaching a cube from Aeryn's plate and biting into it thoughtfully. "D'Argo shanghaied Chiana and Rygel into loading every last sphere onto a transport pod this morning, straight after Kir finished powering them down. He's well on his way back to Kaalene and looking forward to a good tentrite meal. And now he has a pod he doesn't even have to stay there." Aeryn glanced at him quizzically and he shrugged. "He decided not to take Zhaan up on her offer to stick around; he didn't reckon much to our dietary arrangements. But we said he could keep the pod – least we could do really. He was really pleased – he's going to go looking for another radiavore colony once he finishes up with Kaalene."

"Finishes up?"

For an instant, a grim expression flickered across John's features. "We gave him some of Zhaan's jelifan fire paste. He promised to make sure this never happens again."

Aeryn nodded slowly. "Good." An expression of brief disquiet stained her features. "How is Rygel?" she asked quietly.

John grinned broadly. "Sparky? Oh, he's back to his old obnoxious self, and he's gloating outrageously because he said it was Pilot all along. You know what they say – they can't break you if you don't have a spine!" He paused, his grin fading slightly as he read the expression on Aeryn's face. "You know, you could ask him yourself."

Aeryn shook her head. "He's been avoiding me. And I don't blame him."

There was a long, hard silence, a kind of imposing quiet that sucks the air out of the eardrums and any cheer from the heart. Aeryn's gaze drilled relentlessly into her plate as she fingered her food ruthlessly: John's eyes never left the Sebacean's face. The atmosphere vibrated awkwardly.

It was John who broke the silence with the words that were lingering on both of their minds. "I know you don't want to talk about this," he began softly.

"Then don't." Aeryn's interruption was sharp as a dagger to the heart but John ignored it pointedly.

"But I have to know," he finished the sentence with quiet force. "How much of what happened down there were you in control of? How much was you and how much the radiation? Because I'm still having trouble sorting out what was real."

There was an inference behind his words that shimmered heavily beneath the question but Aeryn carefully ignored it. Her eyes never strayed from her plate. Her lips remained a firm tight line. John sighed.

"Come on, Aeryn." His voice was a low, intense attack. "I just want to understand what happened to you. If you were faking Pilot out, then why did you stop me when I had Pilot at my mercy? Why did you attack Rygel before he could inject the serum? And if you weren't, why the frell did you help me?"

A soft sigh escaped Aeryn's lips like a hiss. "I'm not sure I can answer that," she murmured at last. "In many ways, I'm not sure myself."

John leaned forward. His eyes were a determined plea. "Try. Please. "

Aeryn rubbed her fingers against the bridge of her nose as she fought to clarify her memories.

"I don't remember very much about what happened," she responded at last. "A lot of it is a blur. I remember going to visit Pilot and I remember his attack. I remember coming around afterwards and arguing with him. But a lot of what happened afterwards is hazy. I remember it but it was like staring through mist from behind my own eyes. What I remember most clearly are feelings." She shivered. "Which was the part I would most like to forget." She looked up and met John's gaze, her blue eyes intense. "I did want you dead," she stated softly. "All of you. It was the strongest desire I have ever faced. But somehow – a part of me still knew that what I was doing was wrong. There was a little sane corner fighting to get out and every so often, it did. At crucial moments, it would force itself out and influence events. I knocked Rygel out instead of killing him and took his serum and the anti-gravity unit. I saved you from the first fall and made sure you'd survive the next. I even gave you the means to stop Pilot. But I didn't remember afterwards that I'd done it. And now, it's all switched round – I remember the sane moments clearly and block out the madness."

Her hand, still gripping a food cube, began to shake. "It was a battle – staying sane for long enough to make a difference. I would have injected Pilot myself if I could have only held on a microt longer. But I couldn't. The desire to kill was too powerful to be held away for long. The only thing that made me strong enough to fight back was my desire not to."

She glanced back down, a pale, rueful smile flickering across her features. "Ironically, it's probably a good thing it happened that way. If I hadn't disarmed you, you would dead by now and probably the others too. Pilot was never at your mercy – there were a hundred DRDs that would have wiped you out in a microt if he'd really believed you would harm him. If he had seen you as an immediate threat, he would have obliterated you instantly instead of playing with you first. I was as much protecting you as him. Besides, I wanted Pilot cured not dead." She sighed. "The same applies to Rygel. Pilot was no fool, John – he knew what you'd do and who you'd send. He would have killed Rygel on the spot if I hadn't been guarding his lower chamber to prove my loyalty."

John watched her thoughtfully. "But what about on the walkway? Couldn't you have told me what you were doing instead of letting me think I was about to die?"

Aeryn regarded him. "Do you have any idea how good Pilot's hearing is?" she retorted. "He would have heard me – and then we'd both have been dead."

"John, are you there?" Zhaan's disembodied voice caused a violent start to both peacekeeper and human. Pulling a face, John reached for his comm.

"Yeah, Zhaan, what's up?" he asked.

Zhaan's voice was soft but it contained an element of anxiousness well hidden in its folds. "Please fetch Aeryn and come to the den," she said brusquely. "Pilot is conscious."

Aeryn's expression froze. The food cube she was holding snapped in half like a gunshot. 

John's eyes never left the Sebacean's face. "Thanks Zhaan," he replied. "We'll be right down."

**************************

It took no more than a few hundred microts to traverse the golden ribbed passages of Moya's interior to reach the towering vastness of Pilot's chamber. Neither John nor Aeryn had entered this room since their experience five days before and despite themselves, both displayed a distinct trepidation as they beheld the gleaming golden door that concealed the arena their earlier battles. John's hand rubbed almost unconsciously against his bruised limbs – Aeryn's fingers slipped up to stroke the dark red scar hidden just beneath her hairline. But after a brief, mutual glance, John took a sharp breath and flicked a finger against the door release.

The chamber opened out before them, a shadowed vault the size of a vertical cathedral, but somehow it did not seem so dark or threatening as before, reverting to it's more familiar impression of simply being big. At it's centre, dwarfed despite having considerable bulk himself, Pilot rested, his limbs laid out weakly against his panels, his eyelids flickering, his carapace drooping forward slightly as though his neck was having difficulty taking the strain. His usually vibrant purple colouring was dulled to a greyish tinge, his amber eyes a pale reflection of themselves. He looked unnaturally weary and seemed to be fighting a fairly futile battle to keep himself awake.

And he was not alone. To one side of the walkway, D'Argo lurked imposingly, his Qualta blade, in its rifle form, resting with deceptive casualness against his shoulder. Beyond the Luxan, Zhaan was kneeling on Pilot's console, bending over the navigator with apparent concern, her azure face displaying a mild but affectionate irritability as she reached out to swat the nearest outstretched limb.

"I told you to leave that!" she exclaimed firmly. "Moya can look after herself for a couple more arns. Concentrate on yourself. I'm sure she can manage without you for the time being."

"But…" Pilot's protest came out with difficulty, his voice rich with strain but very much back to normal. "All her systems… I've neglected her, I have to…"

"No!" Zhaan's stare could have welded rock. "What use do you think you are to Moya is this condition? You need to rest a few arns. You'll do her far more good recovered than you ever will in this state and you won't recover until you rest!"

For a microt, it seemed that Pilot intended to continue his protest. But then with a sigh, he slumped back against his console and gave up.

"I am a little tired," he conceded. "Though I don't see why I should be. It isn't as though I've been doing anything."

 Zhaan glanced up – her eyes fixed on the two new arrivals, both of whom were regarding Pilot with a combination of relief that he was so clearly back to how he should be and confusion at his last statement. She quickly shifted her gaze back to her patient. "I told you," she stated and there was a decisiveness to her tone that seemed to be aimed more at the new arrivals than at Pilot. "Radiation sickness can be very draining and you and Moya suffered a nasty dose. It's hardly surprising that you should feel weary."

She patted him gently on the shoulder and shifted her gaze away, fixing it more permanently on John and Aeryn. 

"John, Aeryn," she declared, her eyes a stab of deliberateness, her voice pointed and precise. "Pilot has lost his memory."

Her gaze tightened as both the human and the Sebacean fought down flickers of surprise. "His last clear memory is leaving orbit of Kaalene's moon. He has some vague recollections of a few conversations and a meeting in his chamber but he can't remember any details. I've explained what happened though – that the radiation from the spheres Chiana and Rygel brought aboard poisoned his and Moya's systems and that he collapsed whilst trying to repair too many system fluxes. But the spheres have been removed now and we've flushed out the radiation. Provided he rests, he should be himself again in a matter of days."

From the look on Zhaan's face, it became immediately clear that anyone who did not stick to her lie and let slip the truth to Pilot would wish they had died when they had had the chance. John felt a strange shiver of relief pass through his body. He'd been dreading this for days – what to say to Pilot, how Pilot would feel about what he had done, the awkwardness, the guilt on both sides, and the inevitable impact it would have had on their relationship with the navigator. But now, with one convenient lapse of Pilot's memory, it had all been avoided. He felt as though a weight had lifted – he had to restrain himself from cheering out loud. If Pilot's memory block held, it meant it was finally, completely, and irrevocably over. They could put the whole messy business behind them and have done with it.

He stepped forward, smiling at the navigator who regarded his euphoric expression with mild confusion.

"Commander?" he inquired. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Just glad to see you back to yourself again," Sincerity shimmered through every syllable of John's words. "We were all very worried about you, you know. For a while, I really thought we'd lost you."

An odd little expression flickered across Pilot's face. "So did I," he murmured, the words all but inaudible, a hush beneath his breath. He smiled with tired sincerity. "But I'm all right now."

For a just a microt, John wondered. His eyes scrutinised the navigator's features – beside him he could sense Aeryn doing exactly the same. But Pilot, it seemed, was done with giving anything away; his gaze flicked back to his panels, much to Zhaan's irritation.

John gave an internal shrug. Well. It didn't really matter anyway. What Pilot chose to say he remembered was up to him. As long as he wasn't planning on a relapse, he could respond to the events of the last few days however he wanted to. And it was certainly easier this way.

Zhaan was speaking and her tone implied that her words were meant for general consumption – John placed his suspicions firmly to one side and listened.

"All the same, Pilot, I believe we should take precautions." The Delvian was glancing from face to face. "For the next few days, we will take it in turns to keep you company – just until you feel less tired. It's better to be safe than sorry."

John read through the priestess's concerned gesture at once – she was taking no chances on a recurrence until the spheres were well and truly out of the area and the radiation out of Moya's system.

"I will stay for now," Zhaan was already sorting through the pile of herbs and vials she had heaped on Pilot's flashing controls. "You may all leave if you wish."

D'Argo nodded gratefully and swinging his Qualta blade, he strode from the room, muttering something about checking on Chiana. John glanced at Aeryn, who was a silent statue at his side. She had not spoken once since they had entered the chamber, her eyes never straying from Pilot and his console. John caught her gaze as it shifted briefly to the bulkhead, it's earlier bloodstains wiped away thoughtfully by Zhaan; a shiver passed down her body, as her hand twitched towards her skull. John, catching the gesture, frowned in concern.

"Come on, Aeryn," he muttered softly. "You never finished your meal."

She glanced at him, gratitude flashing briefly across her eyes as he laid a hand on her arm and led her towards the exit.

Pilot's guilty eyes watched her go.

********************

The next three days on Moya passed with blissful uneventfulness. As wounds healed and memories faded, one by one the crew slipped back into their old routines and attitudes as hellish days were slotted away and replaced by cosy inaction. Watches were taken on command, meals consumed in the centre chamber, repairs performed, hobbies indulged. Nobody spoke of their ordeals – Zhaan had made it very clear that, with the navigator's apparent short-term amnesia, the subject of Pilot's radiation induced behaviour was a permanent taboo – and the only thing to remind them that last dozen days had been anything out of the ordinary was the casual watch being maintained in Pilot's chamber. After several such watches, John's private suspicion that Pilot knew the real reason for the surveillance hardened into almost certainty – but since the navigator's behaviour made it abundantly clear he wanted the events of those awful few days forgotten as much as everyone else did, John allowed him his denial and kept his thoughts to himself.

Only one member of the crew had not taken a turn at keeping the navigator company. Aeryn had not volunteered and no one, excluding Rygel's grumbling about the peacekeeper not doing her bit, had suggested she should. The memory of their terrible pairing was still fresh in the minds of all – it was the unspoken opinion of everyone on board that it would be best to keep them apart for the time being, as much to avoid the distress it would cause for them as to reduce the risk of recurrence. But once her irritability had faded, Aeryn had slipped into a state of almost abnormal quiet – she wandered the corridors of Moya in times of both sleep and wakefulness, a pale, dark ghost with shallow gaze and haunted eyes, fending away the concerned attempts of her shipmates to console with her. When questioned, she would simply claim that her headache was still troubling her and preventing her from rest, but yet she refused Zhaan's offer of a herbal sedative in favour of maintaining her vigil. She seemed almost trapped, tangled in the web of her own mind, unable to escape the events of eight days before but yet hurling back every lifeline she was offered. She needed an outlet, that much was clear, someone to whom she could clear the burden of her mind and start to get back to normal. But she would not speak to her crewmates but in passing and spent vast quantities of her time gazing with lost eyes into nothing. 

Her friends watched her and worried.

It was John who suggested it was time that Aeryn take a watch in Pilot's chamber. He offered the suggestion diffidently over a meal, his eyes drifting knowingly towards Zhaan as the words broke free; the Delvian had already approved his plan. Pilot had expressed his concern about the Sebacean to both on several occasions, having witnessed her meanderings via his now placid network of DRDs, and although he had skilfully managed to avoid any reference to events of which he was not supposed to be aware, he had succeeded in portraying his deep desire to straighten things out with her as soon as possible. The human was almost sure that the reason Aeryn would not open up to her crewmates was because she was convinced they could not possibly understand what she had been through. The time had come to push her into contact with someone who did.

He had expected her to protest. At the very least, he had expected her to _react_. But instead, the peacekeeper merely regarded him for a microt, the turbulence of her eyes a mystery and then, with a barely perceptible nod, she had risen from the table and proceeded from the room.  

She needed this.

She knew that. It was going to continue, to nag, to eat away at her insides until it was resolved and it would never be resolved until she had faced Pilot. But that did not make it any easier for Aeryn as she strode rapidly along Moya's golden tiers, her stony expression a mask of contrast concealing the emotional chaos that lay beneath. Even in her days as a peacekeeper, she had never believed herself capable of such calculated cruelty, such torment, such deliberate evil. She had tricked, attacked and tortured her friends; she had plotted to destroy their lives for her own gain. She had become a different person and she had been helpless to prevent it.

She wanted so much to be able to say that she had lost herself. But deep, lurking coldly in the depths of her heart, an unpleasantly honest corner of herself refused to accept this was true.

She had not lost herself in the radiation. She had _found_ herself.

It wasn't true. It couldn't be. She had been so determined, so sure, so insistent on denying it. But no matter how hard she had tried, she could not shake that parasitic little doubt. A face, a vision, a memory lingered in her mind, taunting her, reminding her that this was not the first time she had placed herself above the well-being of those she cared about, not the first time her actions had led to torture and death for someone who had changed her. What if that selfish instinct was ingrained into her psyche? 

What if it emerged again?

It was her greatest fear. But she dared not share it. No one who had not experienced the full power of the radiation poisoning could ever understand the way it segmented the mind, dragged all the nastiest emotions within the soul to the surface and suppressed all that was good. There was no point in sharing her thoughts with John or Zhaan – even Zhaan with her dark history could not comprehend the depths to which she had sunk in the abyss of her soul. Only one person on this ship could, that Aeryn knew, and he was maintaining with absolute determination that he had lost his memory. Pilot was no more willing to face this than she was, and until now, she had thought that it would favour them both if she just stayed away and allowed the experience to be lulled by time. But time was no healer here – all it did was feed the sickness boring within her and encourage it to grow. No, it had to be done, Pilot had to be faced, whether either of them liked it or not.

Before it destroyed her entirely.

The door to Pilot's chamber swung away before her; Chiana's dark eyes fixed on her, startled and vaguely suspicious. Her expression darkened further at the peacekeeper's declaration that she would taking the next watch, but a brief conference with John and Zhaan over the comm system led to the Nebari giving a reluctant shrug and muttering something about it being upon their own heads as she clambered down from the console and swept out of the door. Aeryn watched her go, watched as the slender grey shape retreated across the walkway, slapping the door control and watching as she vanished behind a sealed wall of gold. Her eyes lingered a microt longer as the door swung to a lazy close and cut off her last escape.

She turned.

Pilot was watching her.

Frell.

Aeryn felt discomfort wriggle disconcertingly in her belly. The creature before her was one of her closest friends, the one person on this ship that she had always felt completely comfortable with. They had talked so many times, discussed things that neither would have ever revealed to anyone else. But where was she supposed to start now? _Hello Pilot, I know you've been lying about losing your memory. Tell me, do you believe that you have been fooling yourself all these years and that you are really a psychotic killer deep down?_ Oh yes, that would make a _wonderful_ opener to a sensitive conversation! 

"Officer Sun." The sound of the navigator's voice caused Aeryn to start: she fought to cover the gesture but the flicker of Pilot's expression implied it was a little bit too late for that. "This is a pleasant surprise."

"Pilot," Aeryn nodded her head stiffly. Determinedly she forced her legs into motion, striding quickly across the intervening space and pulling herself onto the console. Her eyes distinctly avoided the nearby bulkhead and she noted that Pilot's had done the same. 

She carefully selected a safe and neutral opening query. "How's Moya?" she asked with forced casualness.

"Fine," Pilot's reply was almost identical in tone. "She's still tired, of course, but she is recovering rapidly. She'll be much better once we leave tentrite space for good."

"And you?" Aeryn avoided the navigator's curious golden eyes, gazing mindlessly into the dark beyond as she tried to focus her thoughts.

Pilot nodded awkwardly. "Much better. Thank you."

There was a brief uncomfortable pause.

"How's your head?" The navigator ventured finally. His tone was rich with discomfort. When Aeryn's gaze swung sharply upon him, his eyes darted back to his controls. "Crichton said you fell," he muttered awkwardly, trying to ignore her intense examination of his carapace. "I was concerned."

Aeryn bit back a surge of bad memory. "It's improving. I still get dizzy spells if I move too quickly."

"It must have been serious for the effect to last so long." There was a shiver underlying Pilot's words, a painful little shudder that spread from his voice to his softly vibrating limbs. He seemed to be having difficulty concentrating.

Aeryn bit her lip, her eyes examining the panels as intensely as the navigator. "It was a bad fall," she managed.

Silence strangled both their words. The soundlessness stretched, taut and awkward, dragged to breaking point by the rich burn of unspoken emotion. The atmosphere was heavy, choking at them both as the darkness that lingered in both their thoughts sought to grasp their minds.

"Oh, this is ridiculous!" Pilot's head snapped up abruptly, his expression a mixture of discomfort and dismay. "Aeryn, I just want to say that I'm deeply sorry."

Aeryn's eyes rose slowly, sliding up the navigator's worn face until they found his eyes. "For what?" she said softly.

"For eight days ago." Pilot flinched but held her gaze. "For everything I did whilst I was… different. Especially to you."

Aeryn's expression was inscrutable but her heart pounded against her ears like a drum. _She had been right…_

"I thought you said you'd lost your memory," she whispered with difficulty.

Pilot's features slipped down to the edges of a glare. "You know I haven't," he replied firmly. "You've known for three days. That's why you've been avoiding me."

"I haven't been avoiding you," The lie came instinctively. "I've been busy, that's all."

"Oh yes, really busy." There was a hint of sarcasm in Pilot's tone but it lacked the malicious intent of his earlier persona. "Busy wandering from tier to tier at all hours, staring into nothing, busy ignoring your crewmates and missing your sleep! Sounds like a packed schedule to me!"

Aeryn glared at him coldly. "Stop it."

"No." The refusal was flat and unyielding. "This has gone on for too long already. I know what's going through your mind, Aeryn. I understand."

"Oh really?" It was Aeryn's turn to be sarcastic. "Do you sleep?"

Pilot looked slightly taken aback. "You know I don't!" he replied, his tone filled with confusion. "But what does that have to do with…"

"Everything." Aeryn leaned forward, her blue eyes intense. "You don't sleep so you don't dream. So you do not have to face the memory of what you are and what you did every time you close your eyes! Every time I sleep, I'm back there again, torturing Crichton, wanting him dead, every time I'm there again! And you wonder why I don't want to _sleep_?"

Pilot took a deep breath. "Aeryn, it's just a memory. _It was not your fault_. You weren't yourself."

"But that's the point, isn't it?" Aeryn fought back the tears welling against her eyes. "What if it _was_ me? I'm a peacekeeper, trained to be a killer from birth. When I was…" She broke off, breathing hard but Pilot's eyes encouraged her to continue. "It felt right," she whispered softly, desperately. "It felt good. I felt as though I had let myself free for the first time in my life. And all I wanted to do was inflict pain take the lives of others. Is that me? Is that what I really want to be like, deep down?"

"No," The word was soft, simple but penetrating. "The radiation…"

"…Did nothing more than bring to the surface what had been there all along." Aeryn's interruption was sharp. "Haven't you realised that too? How could it have happened if it hadn't have been there in the first place?"

"Of course I realise," The navigator's voice was a smooth hush. "In case you have forgotten, I learned the lesson about not deluding myself the hard way." 

Aeryn glanced up. Pilot's expression was intense, his eyes shining with gold fire as he fixed his gaze upon her. "It's there, Aeryn, in all of us." The words came softly, but they seared like a knife to the soul. "The poison, the desire. We devote lifetimes to trying to ignore it, to pretend those feelings aren't a part of us, but deep inside we know we never will. Most people never face them – they simply thrust them down and leave them to rot at the soul. We've faced ours and we've come through it. By my reckoning, we have won a victory and we can be better for it."

"Won?" Incredulity flickered across Aeryn's face. "How can you say that? We almost wiped out every person on this ship!"

Discomfort creased Pilot's features; he sighed deeply. "This isn't easy to explain in terms that you can understand," he stated softly. "I have always known I was capable of… unpleasant things." A shadowed memory played across his eyes. "But I have leaned from my experience that hiding from yourself and your emotions will only make things worse. When I willingly turned to face death a quarter cycle ago, I also faced myself. I know exactly who I am now and I have accepted that. And I know because of this that the person you saw eight days ago, was not, and never could be me. Circumstances beyond my control created a monster from my darkest soul; but when those circumstances are removed, I can suppress that monster. If it was truly me, do you think that, once unleashed, it would ever be willing to retreat?"

He smiled at the peacekeeper softly. "Do you still wish the others harmed? Do you still want them dead?"

Aeryn's features contorted. "Of course not!"

Pilot's golden eyes fixed upon her. "Then that person was not you. A part of you perhaps, but not you at the core, not you where it _matters_. You are not a monster, Aeryn Sun. And provided that you keep that at the forefront of your mind, you never will be."

Silence stroked the darkness. Eyes of sapphire and gold gazed upon each other. No movement stained oblivion, no sound split through the black, the absolute quietude of self-contemplation. Two very different beings that had shared in one very disturbing experience pondered it alone but together in the silence of their minds.

"Thank you."

Aeryn's voice was a whisper that undulated through the quiet as though to pass unseen. Pilot's shimmering smile rippled to join it.

"Consider it a favour returned," he murmured in reply. "You save my soul, I save yours."

In spite of herself, Aeryn smiled. Ghosts flitted away from her eyes to be swallowed by the darkness. Suddenly, she felt much better.

"Did you and Crichton plan this?" she inquired.

"Not intentionally," Pilot's eyes began to stray towards the pulsing glow of his console. "But he might have picked up on the hints I dropped about wanting to see you." He smiled again. "I was not very subtle."

Aeryn gazed down at the flashing welter of lights, fingering the lattice grooves of the panels thoughtfully. "Weren't you at all… nervous about seeing me after what we did? I was petrified of seeing you."

Pilot's eyes glanced across her features. "Of course I was. But we could not have avoided each other forever, even on a ship the size of Moya. I knew this business would not be resolved until we had spoken. And I was sure we would both be the better for it."

Aeryn's expression softened distinctly in the rainbow of light and shade. "You were right."

Pilot met her gaze. "I'm glad. You just need to assert yourself again, Aeryn. You will be fine."

The peacekeeper's smile became rueful. "Don't use that word," she advised dryly. "It's caused enough trouble."

Pilot's expression was mystified. "I beg your pardon, Officer Sun, but which word do you mean?"

"Assert." Aeryn grinned. "That was the advice I gave you just before all this began, remember? That you should try and assert yourself?"

Pilot laughed softly. It was quite a pleasant sound. "True. And it was good advice. It was just the timing that was rather… unfortunate."

Aeryn regarded him for a moment. "Are you thinking of following it after all?"

There was a distinct amusement to Pilot's expression. "I'm not sure that it would be particularly wise under the current circumstances. But I shall certainly bear it in mind."

"Perhaps it's best," Aeryn nodded, a smile also curling across her cheeks. "But at least one good thing may have come out of all of this. I don't think the others will be taking you quite so much for granted in the future."

There was a vague hint of irony in Pilot's expression. "I would not be so sure of that, if I were you. Once they feel safe with me again, I am certain the old order will reassert itself quite rapidly."

Aeryn fixed the navigator with an incredulous gaze. "After all that's happened, do you really believe that things will just go back to the way they were?"

"Pilot!!!"

The declaration shattered the cool quiet of Pilot's vast chamber. With an exaggerated roll of his eyes, Pilot turned to the comm system. 

"Yes, Dominar?"

Rygel's irate voice hurled itself from the comm system. "There is a yotz of a DRD buzzing in the vent over my chamber and I am trying to sleep! I insist that you remove it immediately!"

It was Aeryn could do to keep herself from laughing at the look on Pilot's face. The navigator seemed to be having difficulty keeping a straight face himself – the Sebacean was extremely impressed by the manner in which he managed to hide every hint of his feelings from his voice as he responded.

"I do apologise, your eminence. I'll see to it at once."

"I should frelling well think so!" With a huff, the comm link terminated.

Pilot's gaze fixed relentlessly upon Aeryn, his head tilted slightly to one side as he regarded her with a hint of amusement twitching at the corner of his mouth.

"You do not believe things will go back to normal, Officer Sun?" he said with a smile. "I believe they already have."

THE END

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Sunday 4th August 2002.

Well.

That's it.

Give me a minute. I'm in shock. *g*

And I have good reason. This fic has been, by turns, one of the great joys, releases, frustrations and banes of my life since that fateful day in the first week of September, in the year 2001, when I sat down in the bunk of a grounded canal boat in Yorkshire, waiting for British Waterways to come to our rescue for the second time that day (I kid you not *g*) and first wrote the fateful line, "This is intolerable!" In the eleven months that have passed since then, my life has undergone some pretty drastic changes; just two weeks later I was struck down with a serious illness, which, although mostly behind me now, is still giving me trouble every now and again. I've been in a car accident, got a new job, been given another new job within the first one (but alas with no extra money), been on three holidays (including the one on the aforementioned canal that lacked rather in that most vital commodity for a canal – water), sighed up for a postgraduate degree in Literary studies this October and of course, watched the entire third season of Farscape *g*. When I began this, I had only seen SOD. Now season four lurks on the horizon here in the UK. 

I had intended to finish Breaking Point by Christmas 2001. Yeah. Right.

So my timekeeping isn't up to much. *g*

I love this fic. I've been meaning to write in some form or another since I first saw TWWW and it occurred to me just what Pilot could get up to if he ever snapped. But it has been, in the nicest possible way, absolute Hezmana to write. IT WOULD NOT END. Every section I thought would be short and easy would turn out to be a monster. I had intended it to be a two parter, would you believe. Two became four, four became five, five became six, and then part six went and overran and spawned parts seven and just this week, eight.  When I felt finally felt well enough to write after Christmas, I decided to put on a spurt and finish before the end of season three in the UK. At this point, I was in part three and still thought part four would be the last. I posted parts one and two at fanfiction.net to spur myself to finish the rest as soon as possible. S3 finished for me in February. In case you hadn't noticed, it's August.

 So much for that.

But I was absolutely determined to have it done before season four. I hit one goal anyway! *g*

But I'm blathering  (I do that a lot, you may have noticed) I really just wanted to get across just how much this fic has been involved in the twenty-second, and probably most eventful year of my life. And now it's over and it feels so weird, I just need to tell someone about it. Short straw, guys. :)

So: for every hardy soul who has made it this far (both through the fic and this so called note *g*) THANK YOU. Your feedback has cheered me along immensely and I'm very grateful for all of your nice comments. My especial thanks go to Jade and the guys at TheFarscapeLounge mailing list for being my unofficial beta readers and to all of the regulars at the BBC board and Pilot Paradise for putting up with me alternately whining about and promoting this fic to death. Thanks guys. You've been very tolerant. *g*

That's it really. I hope you enjoyed following this journey with me. In spite of myself, I have enjoyed taking it.

Jess Pallas. :) 


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